


Without the Hook

by rednihilist



Series: Like the Fuckin' Kennedys [2]
Category: Four Brothers (2005)
Genre: Adult Language, Alternate Universe, M/M, Prior Noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-28
Updated: 2011-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-17 08:18:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rednihilist/pseuds/rednihilist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The violent firing and tempering of a certain family dynasty -- and, no, not the fuckin' Kennedys.</p><p>Can be read as stand-alone, or as the sequel to "When Later Alone."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Polyphony, in terms of music, is two or more independent melodic tones sounding simultaneously. This is in direct contrast to monophony, or music featuring a single tone, and also homophony, in which one dominant melodic "voice" is accompanied by chords.
> 
> Counterpoint, in its broadest sense, deals with the act of successfully combining individual lines of music (independent in movement, pitch, etc.), that, when played simultaneously, form a "meaningful or harmonious relationship."
> 
> In essence, counterpoint is what makes polyphony possible. It walks the walk.
> 
> Quoted song lyrics come from Spoon's "Before Destruction," and Prince's "Darling Nikki," respectively. I think it's pretty obvious which is which, and I own the rights to neither song.
> 
> Disclaimer: Four Brothers and certain characters belong to Paramount Pictures, Di Bonaventura Pictures, et al., respectively. No profit is gained from this writing, only, hopefully, enjoyment.

_"I try to 'believe' in as little as possible. It's reality I'm interested in. I want the truth as we know it, not a guess someone thinks I can handle. I personally don't like being lied to." ~ Jack Mercer_

***

No more smoking for Jackie. Doctor says his lungs can't take it, that he'll get sick more often, too, is at high risk now or something for pneumonia when it gets cold. Then Doc asks what Jack does for work, and the kid won't answer, doesn't say nothin'. So Bobby speaks up.

No more smoking, and, reading between the lines, not much singing anymore either. Jackie's lungs are for shit now, and as much as it's like a sucker punch to the gut to think that maybe the kid's career up there in New York is toast. . . Bobby's just damn glad the lungs are the worst of it. Kid can walk and talk and think; that's more than enough, as far as Bobby's concerned. Hell, he would've been perfectly happy with just the first and the last. Kid's got a mouth on him; Bobby might coulda reconciled himself to no more smartass comments from Cracker Jack.

Honestly, though, nowadays he wonders. Jack's normally pretty quiet, always has been, but for awhile now he's been. . . _silent_ , communicating only through gestures and caveman grunts. Bobby knows he's pretty loud himself, and he and Angel are usually the ones filling in any gaps in a conversation, but Jack always offers up stupid shit, too. He used to, at least. Now, the kid is worse than Mr. Disapproval Jerry, and Bobby can't help thinking it has something to do with the guitar picking up dust in the corner. Can Jack not play the thing, anymore? Is that why he's so fucking quiet? Is it the voice thing? Fuck if Bobby knows, and fuck if he's going to ask, either. That isn't how things get done, not in the real world. Life isn't a movie, where people always talk shit out and make up by the end credits. Jackie isn't real good with the sharing, and neither is Bobby, but eventually, the kid'll just give it away, accidentally. He always does, with some casual comment or complaint. Bobby just has to play it cool, and fuck if he doesn't know how to do that.

Eventually, things will get back to normal, only different now cos Ma isn't here. But Angel and Jackie both are, even if it's just a temporary leave in one case, and indefinite recuperation period in the other. That's just fuckin' fine. Things change, and most of the time Bobby's more than glad for that. He damn well never wants to relive his childhood, for instance, and Christ knows the other shits don't either. Well, maybe Jerry, but only cos the son-of-a-bitch is backwards like that, and he'd gotten here with Ma the youngest of any of 'em. Jerry doesn't remember his bad times like the rest of them do.

***

_Honestly, most of the time Bobby knew he was too old to still be doing this shit, but hell if Evelyn wasn't the smoothest talker who ever lived. She could convince anyone to do the right thing, even and especially when there was no reward in doing so -- not beyond just smug satisfaction and being on the other end of one of her smiles. Lesser men had caved before Evelyn Mercer, so Bobby didn't feel too ashamed to now essentially be doing her bidding like a bitch._  
__

_Besides, he wouldn't really trust anyone else with this job, not even Jerry, to tell the truth._

_Bobby had this one covered. He knew what was up, and he was determined to set things right, or at least go about trying to sort of. . . make it up to the little guy. It was a bum deal this kid had gotten, and a worse rep, and it made Bobby kind of sick to know that other people -- six different homes full of 'em, for Christ's sake -- had just. . . overlooked everything._

_There was a whole lot there to overlook._

_So, that's how Bobby came to be at the Belle Isle Aquarium on his day off from work when he could've been down playin' hockey at the rink with the guys. And that's also how he came to be holding the hand of a seven year old, who apparently was fascinated by snakes._

_Well, at least little Jackie wasn't a pussy, aside from the whole hand-holding thing._

_"Hey, dude," Bobby squatted down to say, "the turtles over there aren't being blocked anymore. Wanna go check those out?"_

_The kid was staring at a python, an intense frown taking up his entire small face, but when Bobby finished asking, the little guy froze up, went still. Then, without looking over, Jackie nodded a couple times._

_His hand in Bobby's had gone cold, and Bobby figured he had about two options right now. He could either ask what the deal was and try to reassure Jackie he. . . meant no harm whatsoever, or he could play it off and be the overbearing obnoxious older brother the kid so obviously needed._

_He figured they would both be more comfortable with option number two. Jackie had Evelyn for the deep talks._

_"Well, let's go then, short stuff," Bobby said, standing up and gently tugging Jackie along behind him. "Them turtles might get away if we don't hurry."_

_By that point, they were standing in front of the tank with the sea turtles, and when Bobby glanced at Jackie using the glass' reflection, he saw a small smile had replaced the frown._

_Bobby: 1. World: 0._

_By the time they'd made the rounds of the aquarium, including doubling back for another look at the big snakes, it was around eleven o'clock so Bobby decided lunch was next on the agenda. And then he had an idea._

_They were outside, and maybe it should've been weird to be checking Jackie over to make sure he was all bundled up in hat, gloves, and zipped-up puff coat that made the kid look like a red marshmallow, but Bobby didn't feel weird doing it. He tugged the funny knit hat farther down over Jackie's head, pleased when it covered the kid's eyes and he got another smile out of it._

_"What would you say to going to check on Evelyn, huh? See if maybe she might wanna eat with us?"_

_Jack pushed the hat back, and then met Bobby's eyes for the first time that day. And then before the kid had even said a word, Bobby knew why Evelyn was so gung-ho about him hanging out with Jackie, spending time with him, and taking him places away from the neighborhood. And he knew why he wanted to do all that, and would like to think he would've anyway, even had she not talked to him about it._

_"Okay," Jack agreed softly, staring back at Bobby with that. . . familiar look on his face._

_"Okay," Bobby echoed, standing up. Then he held his hand out, and Jack slowly reached up with his own gloved one and took it. And that probably should've been feeling weird again, to hold some little kid's hand tight, some strange kid he'd only known for a month, but it didn't._

_Bobby led the way back to his car, and then after making sure Jackie was buckled up, drove them all the way up to where Evelyn had just last week started work at the Children's Aid Society. It was about a half hour drive, and so Bobby made Jack choose a radio station to listen to. Kid picked classic Motown, and Bobby had a good feeling that the rest of the day would turn out well._

_Traffic was a bitch, but Bobby wasn't one to be scared off. A couple times, he was forced to roll down his window and shout at some jag-off to put it in gear or, once, lay on the horn so a station wagon the size of Brazil would choose a lane and fucking stick with it instead of hogging two and preventing anyone behind from making a right turn. Right after he'd screamed out a heartfelt "Fuck you!" it occurred to him that maybe he shouldn't have said that with the kid in the car riding shotgun. Bobby shot a quick glance over at Jackie, but instead of finding him with that kicked puppy or shell-shocked look, Bobby was met with a little smirk._

_Kid had dimples, how cute, but there was also some kind of gleam in those eyes of his that took Bobby by surprise. 'Troublemaker' that gleam said, and together with the smirk, Bobby found himself somewhat at a loss. Huh. So there was more underneath there. Good to know._

_Eventually, he found a parking space only two blocks down from the CAS building, and then he and Jack hoofed it the rest of the way. When they got inside the building, Jackie didn't pull his hand back or move away from him like Bobby had kind of been expecting. Instead, he actually got closer, and at one point Bobby nearly tripped over the little guy._

_Even that whole deal was pretty weird, when he thought about it, but Bobby really didn't mind. It was kinda cute, and a whole lot sad, and if Jackie needed to squeeze the hell out of Bobby's hand and basically try to hide behind him as they set about hunting down Evelyn's desk, then that's what he'd get. Besides, it was understandable. Last time the kid would've been in a place like this was only a month back, when he'd just been dumped off by his last set of foster parents. Not too good a memory, that, certainly not with what the complaint about the little guy had been._

_Which, thinking about it, simply made Bobby pissed off again. Evelyn had told him some of what was in Jack's files, specifically after the incident where Bobby had come home from work early and found the kid naked in the closet repeatedly beating his head against the wall. Didn't take a genius to figure out there had to have been other crap like that before, at the other foster homes._

_The Wendells had been Jack's last home, and they'd brought him in last month and refused to take him back because every time Mr. Wendell went to help Jack get ready for bed the kid had lashed out, scratching, hitting, and once even biting him. The final straw had evidently been when Mr. Wendell, the fucktard without a clue, had gone into the bathroom to drop off some clean pajamas for the kid while Jack was actually taking a bath in the tub._

_"Ripped the shower curtain down," Evelyn had told him quietly. "Wound up kneeing the guy in the face -- broke his nose. The wife threw a fit, called Jack a monster -- right there in the office, right in front of him. Shouted it." All of this came out only after about four shots of whisky and seven or eight really deep sighs._

_"I've never wanted to slap someone in the face so much," Evelyn had confessed, grinning sadly, and Bobby had nodded and tried to school his expression into something a little less freaked out. He wanted to go back and slap that stupid bitch too, because, seriously? Those weren't warning signs that maybe something was up. Those were fucking brick walls that these people just barreled on past. Assholes._

_Finally, Bobby spotted what had to be Evelyn's desk. There was a familiar coat draped over the back of a rolling chair, and quite a few photos placed around the area. Evelyn wasn't actually physically present, though, so Bobby turned and gestured for Jack to hop up on the empty chair, and then the two of them waited for a bit. There was a half-full mug of coffee sitting by the typewriter, which made Bobby grin cos Evelyn always left those around the house, too. He kept one eye on Jack, who was fidgeting with his knit gloves, but took the time to peruse the photos tacked up on the flimsy cubicle walls. There were a lot of them showing kids he didn't recognize. Those were all put up farthest from the desk, at the doorway. The closer he moved, though, the more those little faces started registering. A few were from the neighborhood. Bobby recognized the two Jaffrey brothers from down the block, and the little girl, Elyse? She lived only three houses away on the opposite side of the street. Eventually, Bobby had followed the pictures around the wall until he was back sort of hovering over Jackie trying to look at them. Jack craned his head back and kind of raised his eyebrows up, and that had Bobby snorting because it made the kid look a lot like Evelyn. He leaned forward to brace himself on the desk, and finally got up close to the last few pictures._

_Jerry and Bobby, a lot of them, but Angel was in quite a few, and several showed a 30-something guy with longish hair wearing ridiculous clothing that had gone out of style 20 years ago or more. In all the pictures of him, he was smiling, grinning really, and in three he had his arm around a thin young thing with blonde hair, who it took almost 30 seconds of hardcore staring for Bobby to figure out was Evelyn. The guy with her looked nice._

_Bobby bit his lip, and turned away. When his eyes fell on Jack, still looking up at him, Bobby smiled and slowly reached down to spin the chair around and around. In between spins, he caught Jack smiling, and even that got all the way up to a grin. Bobby figured another two or three whirls and he might actually get a laugh out of the kid._

_"Knew that ol' thing was good for something," came a voice suddenly from behind him, and Bobby glanced back over his shoulder. He spun Jackie around one more time, and then stopped him gently so he was facing the cubicle doorway._

_"So what are my boys up to today?" Evelyn asked quietly, smiling at Jackie but coming up to set a hand on Bobby's shoulder. He leaned over and gave her hug, and when they pulled apart she gave his arm a big squeeze._

_Jack was all big eyes and fidgeting hands, and when both Bobby and Evelyn were just standing there looking at him, the kid got nervous and all of a sudden scrambled out of the chair._

_"Sor- sorry," Jackie stuttered out in a hurry, but Evelyn just bent down to his eyelevel and smiled that same kind smile of hers._

_"Don't you worry, hon," she whispered loudly. "What's mine is yours." Then she reached out to rub Jack's arm, before adding, "And besides, even an old lady like me enjoys a good spin once in awhile. That's what those chairs are **for**."_

_And Bobby smiled, and Evelyn was smiling, and even Jackie -- even Jackie smiled that day._

***

"Jack!" he shouts again, "where the fuck are you, ya pansy ass? Time to dope up again! Come and get it, Sweetheart!" Bobby makes sure to sigh extra loudly, hoping it'll get the little shit to come out and roll his eyes at him, but it's a no-go. Thirty minutes, and Jack has managed to fuckin' disappear inside a house the size of a nickel. Freak.

"Fine!" Bobby shouts, moving to the foot of the stairs and throwing his voice up, "you don't want the goods, I know a few knuckleheads down the block who do! Get a pretty penny for this shit, street-side! Make me some dough, get the fuck outta here and away from your scrawny, fairy princess ass!" He waits a beat or two, then calls out, "No? Jesus fuck, Jack." Bobby huffs, giving in and climbing up the stairs. "At least give a response. 'S fuckin' rude, is what it is. Here I am, slaving away in a hot kitchen all day long, and cleaning up shit, and you can't even toss me a 'Hey, I'm up here. Fuck off, Bobby!' What kinda boy did I raise?"

When he reaches the top of the staircase, Bobby does a brief scan of Angel's room, and finding it dead-empty, turns left towards Jack's and Ma's rooms. "Pansy-ass, hippie boy," he taunts as he goes, "with his girly hair and sissy clothi-- Hey, you little shit," he says quietly, when he finds him. Kid's all hunched over by the desk in his room, and so Bobby leans against the doorframe. "Didn't ya hear me callin'? Time for the vittles, Little Brother."

Jack turns his head to look at him, and Bobby grins at the glare on the kid's face. But then Jack just goes right back to staring at the little laptop he's got rigged up on the desk, doesn't snap out a comeback or even roll his eyes. Bobby swallows and sniffs, and then finally he stands up straight and walks into the room.

"What's so interesting, then?" he asks, peering over Jack's shoulder at the screen. It's some kind of video, the sound of it through the small speakers all tinny and thin. Some band playing, he guesses, with crappy video quality. Picture's shaking, like the person recording it was either dancing or having some kind of fuckin' seizure -- or both. "Who's this?" Bobby asks, and his voice is quieter than he'd intended. "They sound all right. Shitty quality, though."

"'We Spares,'" Jack says, his voice even thinner and scratchier than the music being piped out. "Someone uploaded some videos of the last gig. They're all like this."

"Makin' me fuckin' dizzy, but at least they don't totally suck." Bobby leans closer, setting one hand on the back of Jack's chair and the other down right next to the laptop keyboard. "So you know these guys? Up in the big city?"

Jack makes a sound, something like a sigh but not quite, and says real quiet, "Yeah, I knew 'em." Then he breathes out heavily, and Bobby moves back to get a better look at him. The music stops suddenly, the end of the video probably, but Jack isn't even watching anymore. His head is down, eyes on his hands as he fidgets in his lap.

"Hey, Kid," Bobby says, and he sets his hand on Jackie's shoulder real lightly, "come on. Time for meds. You'll feel better in half an hour, when you're flying higher 'n a kite. Tell ya what: I'll even lug this thing downstairs for ya, so you can soar with this hippie band you're crushing on."

Another sigh, but not so deep this time, and then Jack starts to get up. Bobby grabs under the kid's elbow and together they get him standing. As they hobble Jackie through the doorway and down the hall to the stairs, the kid says, "Dibs on the sofa."

And Bobby nearly stops dead in his tracks, managing to play it off at the last second as him just clearing a stack of magazines out of their path. "I tell ya once, I tell ya a thousand times: you gotta be in eyeshot of something before you call it, shithead. Them's the rules. And, besides," he adds, taking most of Jack's weight as they start going down the stairs, one step at a time, "I'm the oldest and so now technically that fuckin' sofa is all mine. I always have dibs on it."

"Yeah," Jack huffs out, already winded when they aren't even halfway down yet, "but I'm an invalid." They drop down another step. "And invalid always trumps-- " And then they're down _another_ _step_. " --seniority," Jackie finishes.

Bobby can see sweat on Jack's face, feel him shaking where he's holding onto him. "You calling me a senior citizen, you little shit?" he whispers, and they get down one more step, with only two left to go.

" --did see some. . . " and Jack clutches at Bobby, signaling him to hold up, "gray in your hair. The other day." Jack takes a few deep breaths before turning his head to look Bobby right in the eye. Then he smiles. "You are the oldest, Grandpa."

Bobby glares at the little prick, tightening his hold on him. And Jack nods in response. They go down another stair, and then just before the last one, Bobby says, "See if I drag that computer down here for you now, you ungrateful princess. All this verbal abuse-- I feel unappreciated."

Jack's breathing heavily, panting, and the sweat's rolling down his face, and he's trembling something fierce as they stand there, but he's also pretty much smiling.

Bobby counts it as a win.

He gently tugs on Jack's arm, and they slowly start moving towards the living room and the couch.

"Like the laptop even weighs 5 lbs, you pussy," Jack says a few steps later.

And Bobby smiles.

***

  
**"We Weren't Spared"**  
**Discussing the Media Rumor Mill, the Definition of Morbidity, and the Meaning in Music with this year's hottest act. Plus, a Sneak Peek at the Band's Future?**  
**By Michael Frerichs**

In the months preceding the release of their greatest hits collection, We Spares' record sales soared. _Big Ones_ , the band's recent compilation album, amassed such a huge amount of pre-release buzz among vocal fans online and even more vocal critics that sales of the band's previous three albums in turn reached record highs. The band's most recent two full-length albums even achieved platinum status, just in the last month alone.

We Spares' recent, record-breaking success isn't entirely out of left field, however. Prior to the release of _Big Ones_ , the band's previous full-length album, the self-titled _We Spares_ , held the top spot as both their best debut and best-selling record to date. _We Spares_ was also a massive critical success, hailed as the quartet's finest outing yet, and garnering three Grammy nominations last year. So it is that this month, amidst still skyrocketing sales of their _Big Ones_ , and with notables in the music community having recently "out-ed" themselves as We Spares fans in the now infamous viral video campaign by Virgin records, this interviewer sat down with three of the four men behind the now wildly popular, and wildly respected, music.

 **Q**. So my first question is probably the most obvious: where's Mitch Mooney?

[Laughter]

 **Jack Mercer** : [To Randy Jinds] Told you.  
**Randy Jinds** : He's got a DJ-ing gig up in the city tonight. Busy, busy, so we told him to just skip this [interview].  
**Q**. Does that happen a lot?  
**JM** : Mitch is pretty high in demand right now, so unless we're in the studio or, you know, getting ready to do some shows, we don't see much of him.  
**Kevin Izer-Donaldson** : F**ker's the Invisible Man.

[Laughter]

 **Q**. Is that a permanent sort of understanding? There have been a number of rumors floating around that he's on his way out of the band.  
**JM** : Was that last one a question?

[Jinds and Izer-Donaldson laugh, but Mercer just smiles.]

 **Q**. Okay, question: Are any of the rumors that Mooney's at odds with certain members of the band true?  
**RJ** : Nope, not at all.  
**KI-D** : Media just stirring sh** up again, is what it sounds like.  
**Q**. Jack, is that your opinion, too? You and Mooney often express differing opinions in interviews.  
**JM** : I've got no problems whatsoever with Mitch, never have. He's a huge part of this band. We fight and bicker, but, sh**, that's just how we f**king interact. There's no big rift or whatever.  
**Q**. With the greatest hits album, you also released a re-mastered copy of one of the band's earliest songs [the album's first track, "Cigarette Case"]. It features a recording of Jack singing. Can you explain the process that went into creating that song?  
**RJ** : Like, the technical aspects?  
**Q**. Yes, things like: Where did the audio copy of the vocals come from? How long did it take to perfect the song? But also, what was the emotional impact of working on it? Did hearing it bring back any memories? Anything you'd be willing to share.  
**RJ** : [Turns to Mercer and Izer-Donaldson] Well, don't know about you guys, but I nearly had a stroke when I first heard it again.  
**JM** : [To me] One of Kevin's old girlfriends had the original.  
**RJ** : Oh, yeah! Good ol' Micki.  
**KI-D** : Yeah, she'd taped some stuff for us way back when, and then she moved, and wanted to get rid of them, so she called me up, asked if I wanted them or what.  
**Q**. Did you all listen to the recordings together, or how did the idea strike to re-do "Cigarette Case"?  
**KI-D** : Well, I listened to them first -- well, the first few -- but then I brought them over. [He turns to Mercer and Izer-Donaldson.] We ate take-out and, like, chilled, didn't we?  
**RJ** : [Nodding] Yeah, made a night out of it. [Looks to Mercer] Think you were high.

[Jinds and Izer-Donaldson laugh. Mercer nods.]

 **JM** : Probably.  
**Q**. So working with those copies of old songs -- what was that like?  
**JM** : It was like bringing the dead back to life again.  
**RJ** : [To Mercer] Wow, that's not morbid at all.  
**JM** : Well, it's true. [He pauses.] Besides, I'm not dead, so does that still count as morbid?  
**RJ** : You're the one who said "dead," dude.  
**JM** : I was going more for "ironic," I think. [To me] "Cigarette Case" didn't used to have anything like the meaning it does now--personally, I mean. Now, though, it's like the figurehead for everything back then.  
**RJ** : The, uh, culmination.  
**JM** : Yeah, yeah, exactly. In retrospect, that song's amazing, like a Van Gogh or something. Back then, though, I don't think anyone listening really cared about it. I mean, it meant a lot to me, and maybe Rands [Jinds] and the guys by extension, you know, but not-- not just the casual listener. 'Course, we played only f**king clubs and bars back then, nothing like the stuff we do now, so the audience has changed a lot, too.  
**RJ** : No nice studios, either. No stadiums.  
**KI-D** : No groupies.

[Laughter]

 **Q**. Jack, you're on record as saying you can't sing anymore. How has that changed the direction of the band over the years? How does that affect you personally?

 **JM** : The guys are my voice now, my singing voice, anyway. The guitar's always gonna be, like, the direct line. It was before, even, more so than me singing the words ever was. But now I mostly write for their [the band's] strengths, for each [guy]'s, you know, specific sound or what they're most comfortable with. Or-- or sometimes, I'll just f**k with them too, make them work at it, challenge them. Cos I can't. . . because I can't stretch that way myself, not anymore really. Someone has to. And, I mean, I do a song or two every once in awhile, something specific that I know I can do. There've been at least a couple [songs] on, like, the last, what? [Mercer turns to Jinds and Izer-Donaldson.] Two albums?  
**RJ** : [Nodding] Yeah. Yeah, it was two, because on [ _Fading_ ] _Light_ , remember we were going to-- there were those lyrics for "Dead Doctors Don't Lie" [the instrumental ninth track on that album] that you were going to do, but it didn't--  
**JM** : [Interrupting RJ] Yeah, yeah, I couldn't do it. And it sucks. It-- it really f**king sucks, but that's-- that's just the way it is now. So, you know, I can write like that, for myself, sometimes. And those songs. . . they turned out all right. I worked it, I think, but that's a different kind of challenge. [Mercer shakes his head.] It's a stupid thing, honestly, but I still f**king do it. It's like, every time in the studio, I get that itch to switch booths or whatever, you know, to put on that singing cap. And when it gets to the point where I just-- that's when I bring in a song and tell the guys that--  
**RJ** : [Interrupting Mercer] He'll come in with, like, his head down, and just hold out sheets with all this music on it, and then point to a section and ask, 'What do you think?'  
**KI-D** : I always say it's dumb.

[Laughter]

 **JM** : Yeah, Kev [Izer-Donaldson] always tries to f**king axe it right off the bat, but Randy plays along.  
**RJ** : [Shrugging] It's worth a shot, right? What do you always say? [He turns to Mercer.] 'This is our work. Music's supposed to be hard. It's supposed to hurt.'  
**Q**. Is that true? Do you believe that?  
**JM** : You know, I do. Music's supposed to be a process and all that, but it's also something you should look forward to and-- and constantly be thinking about. It's not just. . . procedure, like the law or surgery. Art's like that, too, I think, and writing, and dancing, but only in certain, uh, disciplines or styles, you know? I guess what I'm trying to say is that when making music, the real creating side of it, when that starts to really turn into, I don't know, just a habit or whatever, then that's a sign that something needs to change. I have to challenge myself. I need that. I think that's how we find the best-- in everything, in all ways. If you work for something, you're always going to appreciate it more. And if you appreciate something so much, if you love it. . . if it's really a part of you, an extension, you know, then that's going to come through to people. Because music without anything behind it, without, you know, soul or heart or f**king emotion, that's just trash. It's meaningless trash, and people hearing it can always tell. Well, most of the time they can tell. [Here Mercer smiles, and then clears his throat.] Obviously, not everyone agrees with me, which is why the market's filled with sh** all about banging, but that's-- to me, that's not real music. What we [the band] do means something, means a lot to all of us, and most of us can't do anything else. This is it.  
**Q**. What about you? Could you do something else?  
**JM** : [Smiling] You mean like a 9 to 5 at the Post Office? Oh, I tried that. I did do sh** like that for awhile. We all did. But it was always just about scraping by. I mean, I graduated from high school and everything, but there was never even the thought of going to college. [Mercer laughs, and then coughs.] So, uh, yeah. But, you know, I probably could have done the office thing if I'd wanted to, or, like, stuck with it. I'm good with people, I guess. Or at least people think I'm good with people. [Jinds and Izer-Donaldson laugh.] I mean, I'd be bored as f**k, but I could have done it. Not now, though, or anything. This [the band] has ruined me for anything like that now. There's no going back. I'm house broken. [Mercer smiles again.]

 **RJ** : Personally, I know I'm sh** at everything else. I tried some, too, I guess, but it wasn't like I'd ever have a career. This is the only thing I've ever felt that I'm, like, any good at.  
**KI-D** : Yeah, what they said.

[Laughter, with Mercer again coughing heavily]

 **Q**. I can't help but notice your coughing. Is your health still a serious issue?  
**JM** : [Shaking his head] No, well, I guess it sort of is. [He clears his throat.] I'm going to be like this for the rest of my life, so that's pretty serious, right? [He pauses.] But it's not, like, going to kill me or anything. If I suffocate or something, which isn't a real, uh, concern, then, yeah, it'd be serious, but--  
**RJ** : [Cutting JM off] It's just the amount of air, or lack of it. That's why he can't sing.  
**JM** : [Nods] Yeah, what he said.

[Jinds and Izer-Donaldson laugh again, but Mercer only smiles. His face is still red from coughing.]

 **Q**. Not to sound like a broken record here, guys, but--  
**RJ** : [Laughing] Ha! Good one, man!  
**Q**. Right. There's also been some speculation recently that the re-worked version of "Cigarette Case" is actually just the first of many old We Spares' songs to get a "make-over." Is there any truth to this? Can fans look forward to more re-mastered songs?

[Mercer clears his throat.]

 **RJ** : Well. . .

[There's a long silence.]

 **Q**. Anything at all, just to set the record straight one way or the other.  
**KI-D** : Well, yeah, I guess. [He looks to Mercer specifically.] That's what I recorded the other day, wasn't it? Stuff for "Got Nuffin"?

 **RJ** : [To me] Uh, yeah, we're in the process of sort of. . . fiddling with things. I don't know about the release of them, or anything like that, but I'd love to just hammer those [songs] out. They deserve it.  
**JM** : We're working on it.  
**Q**. Just out of curiosity, how many songs are we talking here? A few?

[Izer-Donaldson starts laughing, and Jinds hits him on the arm.]

 **JM** : More. There're a few different sets Micki got. Some of the quality's crap, but most of it's workable.  
**RJ** : I think there's, like, 15 songs. [Turns to Mercer] Right?  
**JM** : [To me] 18, total. But we'll see how many we put out. It's not-- they're not really the, uh, most fun things to work on, if you know what I mean.  
**Q**. Certainly understandable. And, on a personal note, as a fan let me just say: any music from you guys is appreciated, old, new, borrowed or blue. It's been a real honor, guys.  
**RJ** : Hey, same here. You know you've hit the big time when you guys come calling.  
**KI-D** : Yeah, thanks, man. It wasn't painful at all.

[Laughter]

[At this point, Jinds and Izer-Donaldson stand and each shakes my hand. Only when both have started to leave the room does Mercer also stand up. He too shakes my hand, and then smiles.]

 **Q**. Thank you for sitting down with me.  
**JM** : Oh, the sitting was real fun. It was the talking I wasn't too fond of.

[Mercer then pats me on the arm and walks to the door, nodding back at me before leaving.]

***

When Jackie spaces out on the couch and eventually dozes off cos of the medications, Bobby sneaks over and cleans up around him. He takes the half-full plate of food and glass of orange juice the kid didn't finish into the kitchen, and then he starts untangling the laptop from the nest Jackie makes of the couch every day. The power cord's wrapped around the kid's ankle and Bobby has to bite his lip to keep from snorting out loud at the sight. Kid isn't really a light sleeper during the day, so it's unlikely he'll wake up, no matter how much noise Bobby makes near him. But then, Jack never really sleeps a full night through, either, so the kid still definitely needs any rest he can get.

So Bobby holds his breath and gently lifts up the kid's leg to unwind the laptop's power cord. Once, twice, three to the right, and the cord's free. Bobby pulls it back and drops it carefully to the floor. Then, he straightens out the leg of Jackie's sweats and sets his leg back down on the couch. Restless sleeper, that's what Ma called Jackie, and it's a fact. Kid always rolls and turns and tosses until he's one big cocoon of blankets and bedding. Bobby straightens the blanket and gently puts Jackie's arms back up on his chest now, but in 20 minutes or less the kid's gonna be all turned around again. Most times, Kid only seems to wake up cos he's in danger of fuckin' suffocation, having flailed his way under and around so many times while conked out. Bobby's fuckin' shocked the kid even manages to get any sleep at all, the amount of moving he does every time.

*** 

_First time he sees it, he's puking his guts up into a well-placed trashcan. He'd been mid-stagger on his way home to his apartment after a night out with some of the guys on his demo crew, when the liquor started staging a revolt against his stomach. Next, he's bent double and trying not to throw up anymore because sticking his head over that trashcan to throw up is even worse than the throwing up itself. By the stench coming off that trashcan, Bobby's not the first guy tonight to lose his dinner in there._

_So, when he's stabilized a bit, hopefully enough to get home to his shitty one-bedroom, but also thankfully one-bathroom apartment, Bobby unbends himself, wobbles a bit before getting his equilibrium back, and then for some reason looks around. Going by the nearby street sign, he's only three blocks away from his $500 shit heap, and he's standing right in front of a pawn shop window. Compasses are displayed on little risers, and some boots, shoes, a few purses, and coats -- no weapons of any kind, of course -- and then hanging from the sides, strung up, is quite the assortment of used musical instruments._

_Bobby runs his eyes over the last group, stopping on the third instrument from the left. "Huh," he huffs to himself, finding that interesting and important for some reason. He files that away for later, though, and taking a slow, deep breath, recommences staggering home._

_Two months later, he goes home to Ma's for what he was told was a "special dinner, Bobby" and what in fact turns out to be Jerry and his witchy girlfriend Camille dropping the bomb that they're engaged and planning on getting married in the summer. Everything goes silent for a full five seconds, and then Ma's saying, "Congratulations!" and Angel and Bobby are fucking laughing hysterically, and Jack's just staring at them all like they're strangers and he's not sure if whatever the hell they're infected with is contagious or not._

_"Don't you have anything to say to your brother?" Ma lightly bites out in that voice of hers that means she knows he was already past hammered before he even got here and she's going to have a word with him about it very, very soon._

_"Yeah, Jer," Bobby says, holding up his beer in a mock toast. Angel hoists up his glass, too, biting his lip cos he knows as well as everyone does that Bobby's got something planned. So, he goes for it. "Congratulations!" he cries out, cheerfully adding with a grin, "It's your funeral, you poor fucking bastard!"_

_In the heavy silence that follows, the only sounds are Bobby leaning over and clinking his beer against Angel's glass of water, and someone sighing._

_Camille ends up storming out in a fit of rage not five minutes later, Jerry hot on her trail with apology after apology tripping from his mouth. He still manages to spare a few seconds on his way out, though, in an attempt to glare Bobby to death. Angel, meanwhile, wastes no time begging off to go hang out with his "friends," the majority of whom are really nothing but hoodlums with the long records to prove it. Angel's heading down a path Bobby knows only too well leads nowhere good, but damn if anything he's said has made a bit of difference. Hard for him to lead by example when his own life is rapidly sliding into the gutter._

_That leaves Ma, Bobby, and Jack. Eventually, Jackie quietly gets up from the table and spends some time stacking and gathering all the dirty dishes together. Kid then slinks off into the kitchen with them and starts washing up. Bobby finishes his beer, and when he's done he reaches over and snags Jerry's barely touched one. Ma's just sitting there, staring at him, and he's somehow simultaneously calmer than he's ever been and about one hair away from ripping into her and just laying it all bare._

_It takes Bobby four swallows to empty Jerry's beer, and just as he's set the bottle down on the table, Ma says real quietly, "I don't know why you're doing what you're doing, Bobby, but you need to put an end to it right now."_

_He looks over at her, and she's -- Ma's pissed. He'd been expecting disappointment, but her cheeks are red and her mouth's just a compressed straight line cutting across her face. And now Bobby's not calm **or** angry._

_He's just back to floundering._

_He turns his head away from her, and then they just sit there for a long time. Over the sound of water running in the kitchen, he can hear Jack humming and sometimes singing a word or two._

_As though she knows what his focus is on, Ma suddenly says, "It's his birthday in a few weeks." It's too loud somehow. He's startled into looking over at her again._

_"Huh?" he asks, frowning._

_"Your brother," she snaps out, still really angry at Bobby apparently. "Jack. His birthday is in less than three weeks and we're going to have a little party for him. And you are going to be here."_

_Bobby scoffs. "Yeah, if I don't have to work-- "_

_"It'll be at night, Bobby, and don't you take that tone with **me** , kid. I say there's a party, and Jackie's brothers are damn well going to be there, you hear me?" She eyes him for a moment, and Bobby's pissed and drunk and fucking screwing up every little thing in his life, but he's not stupid. He keeps his mouth shut and drops his eyes to the table and just focuses on breathing in and out._

_Then one of Ma's hands comes into view and she's grabbing his right hand in hers and squeezing it -- **hard**. He obligingly looks up, and it's to the sight of her with tears in her eyes._

_"A present," she whispers abruptly, her mouth snapping shut over the 't' like it's hinged too tight and can't stay open long. Bobby doesn't even know what he's feeling, and he can't say what she is, either, but just going by looks alone. . . yeah, that's it right there._

_Now you fucking get it, he thinks. Now you get what I'm dealing with on a daily basis here._

_But Bobby just nods, and Evelyn squeezes his hand again, and then they're both quiet once more. The whole house would be quiet if it weren't for Jack. He's singing something about wishing it would rain, and suddenly Bobby knows just the thing, remembers it._

_The next day, after work and before the bars, Bobby walks down three blocks and goes into that pawn shop on the corner. He walks up to the guy at the counter, and when he's acknowledged with a suspicious frown and a quick nod, Bobby points up to the front of the store, at the window, third from the left._

_"How much for that guitar?" he asks, pointing with one hand and pulling out his wallet with the other._

***

Tuesday, just after Bobby finishes cleaning the plates from breakfast and is about to start in on the glasses, the phone rings. Then it rings again, and he has to make the snap decision of whether or not to answer the damn thing. As he's wiping his hands off on his jeans and reaching for the phone itself, he kinda mentally prepares himself for that lawyer Mom was "seeing," or some stupid domestic thing Jerry wants him to help with, or someone from the hospital needing to discuss payment plans on Jackie's hospital bills.

"Mercers," Bobby grumps out.

"Uh, yeah. . . " a quiet voice says, and Bobby frowns. It's a guy on the other end -- young, too, it sounds like.

"Who is this?" Bobby demands. "Spit it out, or I'm hanging up right now." He resists adding on any curses just in case it turns out to be someone calling for Mom again -- as three days ago that was the fucking case, and had led to what would go down in his book as one of the most awkward conversations of his life -- but he is so not in the fucking mood for any more jackass, gangster wannabes today.

"Uh, is-- I'm calling for Jack?" the guy stutters out. Sounds nervous, and while any call for Jack from some young-sounding dick pings on Bobby's radar, he takes some joy in the fact that he's already cowed said dick.

"Who is this?" Bobby repeats slowly and carefully, only now wondering, like a moron, if this isn't one of Sweet's goons calling to stir shit back up again.

"Randy!" the guy says quickly. "It's Randy, from the band? I'm in the band with Jack," he adds, still with that nervousness all through his voice. But then it's like that broke the dam, and suddenly the guy just starts rattling all this stuff off. "I don't know if you know that. I mean, I assume you're one of his, uh, brothers? Is he there? Cos I can just, like, leave a message or something, if he's not. It's-- it's not urgent. I'm just trying to see if he's, you know, okay or whatever. I mean, not _okay_ , you know, cos his mom just-- uh, but just. . . cos I haven't heard anything from him in awhile and the other guys are getting kind of-- but that's, you know, understandable and all."

Bobby catches himself snorting aloud when the guy finally screeches to a verbal halt. "Yeah, Randy, was it?" he asks, knowing full well he's right, but cheerfully giving in to the urge to just fuck with this guy a little more. Dude made it too easy, already flaking out before Bobby'd even really started yanking his chain.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, it's Randy. Randy Jinds?"

"Well, Randy, Jackie can't in fact come to the phone right now, but he is here." Bobby hesitates for a few seconds, but then decides it can't really hurt anything if he asks. "You his friend then, too, or just some asshole riding his coattails?"

" _Wha_?" the guy squawks in reply, and Bobby smiles. "No, man," Randy says, and some of that pansy-ass tone has left his voice, "it's not even like that. Jack and me, we've been around for years now. Since Chicago. He's my best friend in the world. I'm not. . . riding his coattails. We're like partners!"

Now, at this moment, Bobby's seriously torn between laughing and making another crack about Jackie and his boyfriend, or cutting the dude a break and backing off. A little. Fact is, Jack's just in the other room, zoning out on morning shows as his good stuff starts kicking in. Then it occurs to Bobby that maybe a good way to solve this is to just take the ancient cordless into the living room and stick it in Jackie's doped up face, watch the kid slur his words and confusedly try to figure out what's going on. That'd be the real test of whether or not this Randy is telling the truth. Jack can't lie for shit _most_ of the time, and Bobby'd found out the other day that him stoned out of his mind dropped those odds down to impossible. Bobby'd caught him trying to light up on the porch, and shithead had seriously tried to play it off as him just "getting some fresh air". . . while he'd still been retardedly flicking the fucking lighter and with the cigarette literally hanging out of his mouth. Yeah, Jackie's a real brain trust these days.

"Well, that's a fucking relief," Bobby finally says sarcastically. He gets up from where he'd been leaning against the wall and turns around to head into the living room. "Tell you what, lemme just go in and see how Princess is doing. If he's awake, then I'll let you talk to him. How's that sound, Randall?"

"Uh-- uh, that sounds fine."

"Peachy," Bobby says, stopping when he gets to the couch and Jack. Shaking his head, Bobby snaps his fingers in front of the kid's face a couple times to get his attention. It works, but takes three seconds too long. Jackie slowly lifts his head up from where it's been resting on his hand, and then his eyes follow a moment later. Bobby grins.

"Huh?" Jack asks, his eyes fucking glazed as shit.

"Phone for you, Princess," Bobby tells him, shoving the receiver into his face. "It's the President."

Jack frowns, but when he makes no move to take the phone, Bobby sighs and literally bends down to mold the kid's hand around it and then drags it up to his ear.

"Fuck you, Bobby," Kid mutters, as Bobby arranges his hand on the receiver. ". . . 're so full of shit."

"Christ, your mouth is foul when you're high," he says, stepping back to see if Jackie'll still hang onto the phone if Bobby isn't hanging onto it right along with him. "That any way to talk to your sweet nurse?"

Jack's got the phone right next to his mouth, and it looks like it might stay put for awhile. He's still frowning at Bobby, but it's pretty dazed and probably more from confusion than any anger or whatever.

"Crap. . . fuckin' deal," Jackie slurs out, his voice still rough in a way Bobby's starting to think is gonna be permanent. " . . . not even nice to me. Ass."

Bobby laughs, then points to the phone. "Says he's in your band. Randy? That sound familiar?"

The frown of confusion slowly changes into something else, some expression Bobby doesn't know the right name for. He looks. . . not happy, not scared, but something. Nervous? Bobby studies Jackie a little.

Yeah, that's him nervous. Huh. Good thing to know, he figures. Although, that isn't really boding too well for fuckin' Randy in Bobby's book.

"Randy?" Jackie whispers, and if it isn't exactly said into the phone, it's at least close enough to count.

Bobby can't hear what the guy says in response, and much as he wants to listen in, he doesn't. At first. No, Bobby unbends himself from leaning over Jack and goes back into the kitchen. There, he leans against the counter for a moment, then cranes back to look into the living room again, before finally just going back to cleaning the dishes. Jack's voice is either real quiet and being drowned out by the running water, or else he isn't saying anything, cos Bobby can't hear a word.

Dishes done, Bobby turns off the tap. Then he goes over to the fridge and, at barely past ten in the morning, grabs himself a beer. Twisting the cap off, he slowly makes his way over to the doorway, looking in on Jackie again.

Bobby's not too proud to admit he's trying to eavesdrop. Sometimes it's the only way to get the truth, especially in this family.

" . . .don't know," Jack's saying. "Gonna. . . gonna stay here. For awhile." Then he's quiet for a bit, and Bobby figures that means Randy's talking over the line. "Yeah," Jack whispers a moment later, "whatever. Whatever you gotta d-- " He stops suddenly, like Randy interrupted him. Bobby frowns, taking another swallow of the beer and looking closely at how Jackie's acting.

Sad, now. He isn't crying or anything like that, but Bobby knows Jackie. That's the kid's fucking depressed face, different from his crying face altogether. This one is. . . more like Jack's trying not to care, when it just makes it that much more obvious that he cares a whole helluva lot. It's the same one Jackie'd always used to have, back when Bobby would catch the little bastards around the neighborhood messing with him and saying shit things about him within earshot, or like when he had come up to see Bobby that one time in the joint, or at the lawyer's downtown fucking last week when he'd been looking at those adoption papers Mom had kept.

Bobby wonders if that shitty poker face of Jackie's fooled anybody up in New York. He wonders as he swallows down some more beer if fuckin' Randy would've seen through Jack's act if he'd been here, and not just talking to the kid on the phone.

***

_Jack's name is flashing on the caller ID, and without a second thought Bobby's dropping his bag right by the front door so he can get the cell open that much faster with both hands._  
__

_"Hey," the kid says, and it's not as worn down sounding as it usually is, "you home yet?"_

_"Just barely," Bobby answers, turning on the porch and dropping down into one of the chairs by the windows. "How 'bout you, shithead? What's going on out there in La-La Land? Bang any hot metrosexuals lately?"_

_He's met with silence, and Bobby starts to wonder if maybe he fucked up and cracked that joke at a really bad time or something, and then suddenly the line's full of the sound of Jack's rough laughter, which of course quickly takes a turn for coughing after only a few seconds._

_"Jack?" Bobby asks, and then he repeats it, shouting, "Jack! What the fuck?"_

_More hacking but it grows distant, like the kid's moving away from the phone. And then, Bobby catches a familiar voice asking at first in the background, but by the last word, right up next to the speaker, "What's so goddamn funny? Jack, wha-- why are you giving this to me?"_

_"Randall, what the fuck is going on?" Bobby asks in his coldest voice, partly cos he is a little worried about Jackie -- always is with that awful coughing he does now almost constantly -- but mostly because he just likes messing with Randy. It's even more fun than ragging on Jackie, as far as that goes._

_"Uh, Bobby?" the guy eventually asks. Jack can still be heard in the background, but the coughing doesn't sound quite as bad as it did a few seconds ago. "What'd you say to him?"_

_"Nothing!" Bobby instantly snaps. "Just the usual shit. I made a crack about him getting some male-tail and then suddenly he's literally coughing up a lun-- what are **you** laughing at?!"_

_But Randy, the fucker, just keeps on laughing from when he'd started halfway through Bobby's response, and eventually Bobby simply hangs up on the retards._

_A few months later, when Bobby's farther out west with the team and can make a pit-stop to see his brother in L.A. after the game, he finds out why the two of them had been laughing._

_Randy even summons up the stones to say to Bobby deadpan, "FYI, we prefer 'dandy' over metrosexual." And then Bobby's suddenly sitting front row center for the Jack &Randy Tongue Festival._

_He doesn't return to L.A. for three years -- excluding his two-day stint when Jack insists he show up for his big 30th birthday party -- cos at least when Jackie and Wonder Boy are forced to come to Detroit to see him they keep the making out in front of everyone to a minimum._

_Detroit's finally good for something._

***


	2. Chapter 2

_"I'm not a sell-out or a buy-in; I'm one goddamn lucky fuck-up. End of story." ~ Jack Mercer_  
   
***

Bobby hates vacuuming. He hates the fuckin' noise, and the movement -- back and forth, back and forth, move to the side, back and forth, back and forth, move to the side -- and he hates that after he's done he turns into some soccer mom, with the yelling about dirty shoes and ruining the carpet. Bobby isn't a goddamn soccer mom, and he sure as hell doesn't want to sound like one, ever. It's embarrassing.

But, it's gotta be done. He also hates wearing boots inside when he doesn't have to, and when it gets to the point where even he's afraid to take off his boots _inside_ cos the floor's so bad. . . well, then it's time to goddamn vacuum. Angel would've been good for it, but fucker's checked his brain again at the door and is back over in the goddamned desert trying to get himself killed. Bobby might coulda convinced Jerry to do it too, but that guy's more regimented than Angel these days. Camille's got Jerry wrapped around her thick, fake-jewel-encrusted finger, and sometimes a week goes by where they see neither hide nor hair of Jerry. Poor bastard. He might as well start wearing Camille's dresses cos it's obvious who wears the fuckin' _pants_ in that relationship. Their girls are gonna be ruined for any guy when they grow up, just as pigheaded and sassy as their momma.

But at least they won't be as likely to get knocked up that way.

And then of course there's Jackie, but Bobby's not in the mood for everything that conversation would demand. He's just tired, and he wants to walk around in his own goddamned house barefoot, and he doesn't want to bicker with Jackie right now, or wind up having to fall back on playing bad cop just to get the kid out of bed. Little shit's lungs are obviously feeling better cos his mouth is downright toxic these days. The body's healing up fine then, which means it's back to moping and self-pity parties for Cracker Jack. Bobby used to think depressed-as-shit-Jack would be way more preferable to broken-down-injured-Jack, but he was wrong. At least when the kid was bleeding, he wasn't constantly arguing with Bobby over _everything_. For Christ's sake, yesterday Bobby told Jack to turn the volume down on the TV and the kid couldn't even do that without trying to tear Bobby a new one for five minutes.

Bobby sighs and moves to the last section of the rug, up and back, up and back, and done, thank fucking God.

*** 

 _He blinks and he's in the waiting room. Someone's got an arm around him, and he drags his head over to look, seeing who it is just as he recognizes the perfume. Bobby blinks again, but Sofi's still right there, rubbing his back a little and doing that fucking smile-grimace that's more painful to see than straight up tears. He doesn't know why she's being all nice to him, but he realizes he's grateful for it. He's grateful to_ **_her_ ** _because he remembers she's the one who actually called 911. Bobby quickly reaches over and grabs her right hand, the one she's got resting in her lap. He squeezes, hard, looking her right in the eyes and trying to say-- trying to say everything without saying any of it. Sofi nods and squeezes like hell back, and then there's another body moving into Bobby's line of sight._

_He lets go of Sofi and stands up in time to meet Angel's swoop down. It's true they're not the most affectionate bunch of guys, but Bobby doesn't even hesitate in hugging Angel back. He doesn't even bother with the usual back-slapping routine, just pulls Angel in with one arm and grabs the back of his head in a hold with his other hand._

_It occurs to Bobby, maybe five seconds in, that he's the one supposed to be comforting everyone else. That's his job as the oldest, as the big brother. So far, it's been the other way around, and he feels like shit for foisting that task off on Sofi and Angel. They should be clinging to each other, not letting him cling to them._

_He pulls back, but leaves his hand on Angel's head, still not quite ready to be left to himself when he loses that connection. They're in the surgery waiting room, he remembers, which isn't nearly as sterile and impersonal as the main ER one, but still pretty damn bad. People get lost in here, with nothing but doubts and worries and an endless loop of worse case scenarios playing in their heads. The place is lifeless, sorrowful, just plain. . . **cold**._

_Cold, in the snow-- and he hears Jackie crying and screaming again, screaming Bobby's name in a way no one's ever said it, desperate and completely terrified. Cold, and snow, and Jackie was fucking dying right in front of him on the ground, and there was blood just **everywhere** an--_

_"Hey, man -- Bobby," Angel says, and then he's got his arm around Bobby's shoulders. "Sit down before you fall down." He pushes on Bobby's shoulders until he drops back into the chair, and then Angel follows by taking the seat to his left._

_Bobby sucks in a huge breath and leans forward to cup his face in his hands. Doctors have been in there for hours already, and Jack could be dying or dead already for all anyone's told them. Hospitals! Bobby fucking hates hospitals. He hates 'em more than he hates prison, way more than courtrooms, and jail. Hospitals lie about hope. At least in a jail cell, a guy knows he's fucked. People around here, orderlies, nurses, doctors in fucking scrubs and elastic booties over their sneakers, they make it seem like everything's gonna be okay, like just working hard and knowing what's up is going to set things right. But it doesn't work that way._

_Bobby's seen too much of hospitals, and too much of lying, and too much dying._

_First, Ma, and now. . . Jackie?_

_He tries to catch the sob before it can get out, but isn't quick enough. It's just the one, though. He presses his face hard into his hands, gripping at his hairline with his fingernails, and that's distraction enough for him to get it together and stop crying. Angel's the one with an arm around him now, and he hears Sofi make a small sound at his right, something like a little whimper._

_He takes a deep breath in and just holds it until his lungs burn, and when he expels the air he tries not to think about another pair of lungs, or breathing, or coughing up blood._

_Or that grin Jackie'd had on his face, that smile with blood-stained teeth that even now gives Bobby the fucking chills._

_He visualizes pushing that all away, forcing it to the side, and then he's able to breathe easily again. He's steady enough to bring his hands down from his face, and sit back, and nod at Angel to remove his arm, and glance at the clock across the room for the time, and to actually think and be able to process one very important fact._

_People had shot Jack. Thugs, goons, hired help, had put bullet after bullet into his little brother's body, and those bastards might be dead now, but the guy in charge of them isn't._

_Not yet._

_They play the waiting game for a little over half an hour before Jerry shows up. Bobby's the first to spot him, leaning against the doorway to the hall with his stupid hat literally in his hand. Once they make eye contact, Jerry straightens up and walks in and Bobby gets to his feet. It's another round of hugging, with Angel getting up too. Then, as they're at loose ends just kind of standing around, Bobby tries to distract them all with talking. He asks about Jerry's girls, and it's no surprise to hear that they're at home with Camille, who sends her best wishes. Bobby would usually snort at that, but any problems he personally has with her aside, he knows Camille meant it when Jerry relates to them that she said to "tell that boy we love him. He's always such a good kid. He doesn't deserve this."_

_Bobby finds the middle part funny because there're only about eight years separating Camille and Jack, but what she'd said was for the most part true. Jack **is** pretty much a good kid, always polite, quiet, not loud like Bobby and Angel both are. Kid's only been arrested once, and since it was a misdemeanor juvenile offense, there's not even an open record of it really anymore. Even Jerry's got a longer rap sheet than that, and he's been on the straight and narrow for more than ten years now._

_Of all four of them, Jackie was the least trouble, and yet he's the one who got shot up. Bobby feels like shit, guilty and ashamed. He feels like he cheated somehow because if anyone deserved this. . . it's him. He's been knifed, gotten into and stirred up more fights than he can count, and he's been in an out of jail since he was 13, first juvie and then stints in County and then six long years in fucking prison. Bobby's the one who this kind of shit happens to, drive-bys and semi-automatics on the street and five, **five** , fucking bullets in the chest at close range._

_Jackie's always been the tag-along, the one everyone alternately babied and bullied. Bobby knows Angel beat up a couple dicks way back when for talking shit about Jack, and he's conked a few heads together himself. No one picks on Jackie except family, and yet now somehow the kid's landed deeper into a shitstorm than any one of them have ever been._

_Jack could die. He could be a vegetable, for all they know. He could be crippled. He won't be the same, that's for sure, however it turns out on that operating table._

_Bobby looks up and meets Jerry's eyes, and then glances over at Angel, and his eyes are probably still red from crying and he's so full of something, some **feeling** , that his chest is tight and he's clenching his hands into fists._

_And he knows, without a doubt, that Victor Sweet is a dead man and Bobby's the man who's going to make him that way. That's of course right when a doctor comes out, doors flapping noisily back and forth behind him, bloodstains on his blue scrubs, but a pleased expression on his face._

_"He's in recovery," the doc says, and Bobby nods once before quickly turning and walking out._

_When he comes back to the hospital the next day, he's still full of something, and it still has him breathing shallowly and makes his palms damp with sweat, but walking into that ICU room and seeing Jackie with his eyes open, spacing out while Angel chatters to him about Iraq. . ._

_Bobby doesn't know what else to call what he's feeling but hope, and peace._

_Goddamn hospitals._ __  
  
***

"So how's Jackie-Poo doin'?" Angel asks. The connection's shitty, full of static and delays, but the Jarhead's smugness still manages to come in crystal fucking clear. "You keepin' him outta trouble?"

" _Me_ keeping him?" Bobby snaps back, inching the hand towel carefully back up on the rack with just one hand. His other one's busy holding the phone. "Isn't it usually the other way around?"

"Nah, bro," Angel drawls out in that way of his, and Bobby prepares himself for the punch line, "it's always Jackie who starts it. You're the just the retard who goes in after him trying to help and ends up makin' it worse."

Bobby sniffs. "You got a point," he finally, grudgingly, admits and Angel laughs. Bobby smiles at the sound, missing Angel a whole lot in that moment.

It's just not the same in the house without him, not the same at all. Bobby hadn't thought it'd make much of a difference if just one of them left, but it does. Now it's just Jack and Bobby. And that's when Bobby realizes that he's fucking lonely. He misses Angel cos at least when Angel's around there's talking. There's fighting, too, and hockey. Christ, Bobby misses hockey.

"How you doin' over there?" he asks in return, clearing his throat a little and switching off the light before leaving the bathroom. "Settling back in? Bet the camels missed you."

"Dude, it's like. . . as goddamn, nipple-twisting cold as it gets in the D, that's how fuckin' sweaty-ass _hot_ it is here. Man, the desert is the ass-crack of the world. This shit is unreal, brah."

Bobby starts going down the stairs, rolling his eyes so hard it feels like they're about to fall out of his head.

"Isn't that where civilization started?" he argues. "Birthplace of man, and all that?"

Angel huffs into the phone so loud it causes little ripples of static to echo across the line. "Fine. Not ass-crack. _Ball sack_."

Bobby laughs, and he can hear Angel start in, too. Another 30 seconds, though, and they've slowed back down to silence -- 60 to 0 in under a minute.

"But seriously," Angel starts, and he's quiet which means he is fuckin' serious, "how's he doing?"

Bobby stops in the hallway, just before he'll be in eyeshot of a certain someone on the couch, and veers off to the left, heading instead for the front porch so he can talk without worrying about Jackie overhearing. Once he's out there, Angel's comment about how cold it is in Detroit comes back to him. Bobby's fuckin' glad he put on a sweater earlier cos right about now it feels like it's below zero out here. Gonna be cold tonight, which means he'll probably be back out here shoveling snow tomorrow morning. Fantastic.

Bobby carefully closes the inside door, and then sticks the hand not holding the phone into his jeans pocket. "Okay, I guess," he finally says, answering Angel's question just as quietly as it'd been asked. "Been to the doctor's three times this week -- physical therapy. And, get this, next week he's gotta start seeing some counselor or whatever. Doc says it's 'part of the healing process.'"

Angel whistles. "Bet that went over real well," he says, and Bobby huffs out a chuckle.

"Yeah," he agrees, pulling his hand out of his pocket and picking at the paint on the doorway a little. Should've put another coat on, he thinks. The coverage isn't quite even. "Haven't talked about it yet," Bobby finds himself saying. "Starts Tuesday." He hesitates, then goes ahead and admits what he's been thinking. "Jackie ain't been talkin much at all, tell ya the truth. 'M startin' to get. . . It's been awhile. Think something might be wrong. Maybe-- you know, maybe this counseling thing isn't such a bad idea."

Angel makes a noise, something like a 'hmm' sound. There's more static-y silence for a bit, but then Angel comes back with, "Maybe it ain't," and he's got that tone in his voice, the one Bobby hasn't heard too much of for awhile. Bobby's trying to remember that skinny, quick-mouthed, and quick- _handed_ , little shit he first met, when Angel adds, "You see some shit -- or you're in some shit. . . stays with you, man." He gives a big sigh over the line. "Don't know, Bobby. Jackie's-- he's always been real. . . sensitive, you know? Talkin' to someone: maybe he should've done that before, back when he was. . . you know. Think maybe Ma could've done a lot. Back then. If she'd known. . . "

Now it's Bobby's turn to sigh. "Yeah, maybe," he finally agrees, not really wanting to think about Jackie when he'd been younger. "So you think this counseling stuff sounds okay? Haven't talked to Jerry or anything, but I could probably find some way around it if. . . " He trails off, and sure enough, Angel jumps in there.

"Nah, man, I say do it. I mean, he's gonna make up his own damn mind about it, push comes to shove, right? If Jackie's got no problem with it, then it's no big thing, you know? He'll either stick with it, or walk out. Ain't nothin' you can do to change his mind. Boy's fucking stubborn as shit."

"Look who's talkin'!" Bobby tosses back, and Angel chuckles.

"Yeah," he replies, and Bobby thinks he can hear Angel's grin in his voice, "but at least we all come by it honest. Mom was no pushover, that's for _damn_ sure!"

"No, she was not," Bobby quietly agrees. Then, louder, he says, "Couldn't be, not with us chuckleheads livin' here."

This conversation seems to be going well, better than Bobby'd anticipated, anyway. Although every second longer he's on the phone with Angel, the likelihood that the conversation itself is nearing an end increases. Nine calls out of every ten, Bobby hangs up abruptly to the sound of Angel laughing his head off. The one out of ten is Bobby shoving the phone at Jack before storming around the place until he can calm himself down again. That's why the house now has holes in the walls, even though Bobby's been pretty good about keeping those located to closets and the laundry room. There's one in Ma's bedroom wall, but it's behind the door. So, when he and Angel make it past 15 minutes on the phone together, they're setting records, and Bobby loves his brother a whole helluva lot, but the asshole drives him crazier than anyone else in the world.

Well, except Jackie. No one can compete with Jack in terms of sheer annoyance. The brat's even gotten worse over the years, not better, though overall in the last month he's sorta dropped off. Physically, when Jackie feels like shit he stops talking. When he's moping or doing too much thinking, it's the opposite: kid won't shut up then. Comes in handy, figuring that out, gives Bobby a clue on how to deal with Jack without screwing him up any more.

Cos Jack's already pretty fucking screwed up, even if the kid himself doesn't seem to think so. Bobby's known him for almost 20 years, and he's seen more than his fair share of shit in his life, but some of this stuff with Jackie? Some of that crap is just majorly jacked, and. . . permanent. It hangs around. He can see it -- they all see it -- with how Jack acts now and everything the shithead got up to while Bobby was Inside. Kid's just as ruined as the rest of them, just differently. But Bobby fuckin' loves the little bastard, stupid, messed up, whacked out baggage included. Jackie wouldn't be Jackie if he weren't a fuck-up.

He wouldn't be a _Mercer_ if he weren't a fuck-up, and if Jackie's anything. . . he's fuckin' family.

***

_It's Angel who tells him, which makes sense when he's able to think about it later, calmly, and without being in immediate danger of screaming the house down. It should've been Jerry, but Jer's not around as much as he used to be, although Bobby knows he tried. Jerry tried to pick up the slack, but he's got his own family now, too. And Jerry always got along better with Angel, anyway._

_Bobby's the one who knows how to handle Jackie._

_So the afternoon he's released, and he walks out to find it's just Ma waiting for him with the car, that's when Bobby's really certain that something's up. He also kind of figures it must be something other than him getting paroled -- early, thank fucking Christ on a pogo stick -- because that would be understandable, but it would result in Ma acting weird, which she's not. If anyone were being stupid about Bobby coming home, Ma would be the first person to tell him about it, lay it out for him, sort of a debriefing on the situation. They have a deal, after all. No matter the situation, even and most especially when it's hard or uncomfortable, Evelyn tells Bobby the truth. That was the deal 18 years ago when he came to stay with her, and they've both held up their ends of the bargain ever since._

_So, no, Bobby figures, Ma doesn't know what's up, which means it's more than likely **not** about Bobby and the fact that he is now officially an **ex** -con._

_But that realization leaves him back at square one. Maybe it's Camille being a bitch, **still** , but he doesn't see how that would be anything different. It'd explain Jerry not being here, but he'd kind of expected that. And Bobby guesses it might, indirectly, affect Jack, cos the kid gets along with everyone and is always trying to play peacemaker. But, then again, Bobby's had the impression that something's been up from even as far back Angel's last visit, and Angel's never given a flying fuck what other people think, especially Jerry's wife. In fact, that's one of the main reasons Bobby always looked forward to Angel's visiting days. He had all the gossip, and, with his ragging on everything, usually made Bobby forget for a few minutes that they weren't back at home just shooting the shit like old times._

_So, not Camille, and probably not Jerry, which leaves either Angel himself as the cause, or Jackie, and between the two. . . Bobby's got a pretty good idea who the culprit is._

_Something's up with Cracker Jack, and during the drive back to the house, Bobby becomes more certain of it with every passing mile. Ma had visited all the time, and Angel too, right up until last year when he'd fucking enlisted like a retard. Even Jerry had come up a whopping six times -- once every year, right around the holidays, like his sense of brotherly duty had finally got the best of him._

_But dear Jackie, he'd only been to visit once -- **once** in six years, four months, and thirteen days. And so it's not a huge leap of logic to go from knowing Jack didn't visit, and knowing the shithead can't lie, to connecting the two into a guess that the reason Jackie didn't visit is because he has something he'd need to lie **about**._

_Because Bobby **knows** Jackie._

_So he's quiet on the way home, wondering what the best way to go about finding out the truth is, and Ma kinda chatters, probably wrongly assuming Bobby's. . . **reacclimatizing**. . . to life Outside again. And thus, when they fuckin' pull into the driveway around four o'clock in the afternoon, and a certain little punk-ass kid isn't there, and also doesn't show up for another four goddamn hours, Bobby's positive it's because said punk-ass is doing something he's not supposed to be doing._

_But then the phone rings, and it's Angel saying he's only got like ten minutes to talk, so quick as he can Bobby grills the moron on everything that's military and how he's doing and where he's going next, and then they switch to Bobby, and both of 'em laugh about his options now which are even more limited than they were before he got sent away._

_But then Angel goes quiet, and asks Bobby if Jack is there. And when Bobby says, "No," and draws it out, Angel sighs, and like a good brother tells Bobby what the fuck the littlest Mercer was up to when he, Angel, left last year for boot camp._

_And then Angel says, "Don't tell Mom. I promised him I wouldn't tell her and if you do, then he'll think I-- "_

_"She deserves to know," Bobby snaps out, cutting Angel off. He has to take a deep breath, though, and force himself to calm down because Ma herself is just in the other room, watching TV and every so often shooting Bobby concerned looks._

_But he and Angel say goodbye right before Bobby holds out the phone so Ma can do the same, and the truth is. . . they both know he's not going to say anything about it to her._

_But, he is, and he most certainly does, say something to Jackie. Kid comes in the back door of the house an hour after they get off the phone with Angel, and he's got that look on his face, like he's trying to be fucking sneaky, like Bobby hadn't caught onto the fact that something was up before Ma had even driven like two feet from the prison._

_Bobby lets him get away with it for a week, and, oh yeah, the kid's still fucking doing it all right. Angel had said he of course didn't know for sure if it was still happening now that he wasn't there, but Bobby barely even has to open his mouth before the assholes in the neighborhood are yucking it up and nodding and giving him all the gory details of just how popular Jackie is with "those faggot freaks."_

_And when he confronts their little brother, he makes sure Jerry is there so he doesn't wring the-- the fucking little shit's neck, cos that wouldn't solve anything and it would make Ma upset, and eventually lead to her asking some unwanted questions._

_Instead, Bobby sets about making it as crystal fucking clear as he possibly can, and tells him in no uncertain terms that there is a problem here, and that the problem is not that Jackie is sucking cock. Frankly, and Bobby never says it to anybody (and he never will), and he never even thinks about it again after he's Out, but he's in no position to fucking rag on a guy for giving head._

_Cos Bobby's a lot of things, but he's no goddamn hypocrite._

_No, the problem is, and he does his best to get this across without letting his anger get the best of him, Jack is giving more than just handjobs, and by the sound of it, more than just blowjobs, to strange men, **men**. The guys around the block had been pretty clear on that fact. These assholes aren't kids; these sick freaks are older, middle-aged men._

_And Jackie is 16._

_And so, the problem is really that Jackie's not only messing around with dudes like this, but also, and here's the clincher, getting **paid** to do so._

_So, Bobby gets Jerry over with a quick explanation, and has no qualms whatsoever about tricking Jack into a hockey game -- just like old times._

_Then, he very calmly and effectively shows his hand._

_"Shut up, Jerry!" Bobby shouts over his shoulder. "I'll give him a break all right!" He skates right over to Jack, stopping on a dime inches from the kid's face. "Break his face and then see how much fuckin' cock he can suck! Hit it, Boy," he orders, pointing down at the puck. "You such a big man!"_

_But the little bastard isn't backing down. "Fuck you!" Jackie screams at him, throwing down his stick and then even going so far as to shove Bobby in the chest._

_It doesn't do anything of course because even six years off the ice Bobby still knows how to skate, and he won't go down unless he wants to go down. It's more the fact that Jack just fucking lashed out at him in the first place that makes it so. . . fucking **weird**. Jackie's never fought anyone, and he's never, ever, gotten physical with Bobby. No one had touched Jack growing up, not even in roughhousing, and Jack shoving him away just now. . . that reminds Bobby of nothing so much as what Evelyn had told him all those years ago, about what had got Jackie thrown out of that last foster house of his._

_Like he thinks Bobby's trying to. . ._

_And then the freaking little shit shouts at him, "You don't know **anything** , Bobby!" and it really is the last straw._

_Bobby doesn't even consciously think about moving closer, but suddenly he's just **right there** , and he grabs Jackie by the throat and gets in his face._

_"I know ain't no brother of mine getting ass-fucked for money!" he hisses out. Then he shakes him a little. "You hear me, Jackie?" He gets no response and he doesn't remember throwing down his own hockey stick, but his other hand's empty when he brings it up to Jack's face and slaps him. "I will kill you if I find out you're doing that shit again!" And his voice breaks, and his eyes are wet, and he's still shaking this fucking little kid he's known forever right by his scrawny neck. "I swear to God I will!" Bobby promises him, and if Jackie doesn't get what he's trying to tell him and stop what he's doing, then Bobby knows he has it in him to. . ._

_Because Jack is better than that. He's Bobby's brother, not-- not. . ._

_"I-- I hear you," Jack whispers suddenly._

_Not Bobby himself._

***

Christmas is different from Thanksgiving, not in a real good or bad way -- just different. Ma not being here's still a huge hole in how things would've gone, and Angel getting shipped over to Iraq two weeks ago leaves 'em all feeling. . . lopsided. Bobby does his usual commentary on everything that's stupid about the holiday, but no one really calls him on it, or they don't do it right if they try. Sofi's thankfully off doing the holiday thing with her own family since Angel's not here, so that's one nuisance out of the picture, but Camille's still around, along with Jerry and the girls.

The way Camille's been going on and on about the tiniest details the last few days, and how she practically nagged him to death about letting old Mrs. Finch from down the block come over for Christmas dinner, Bobby would have thought this was the biggest event in the history of Detroit. It's just fucking _Christmas_. Not like there won't be another day exactly like it a year from now.

It's not what Camille nags him about, but how she fucking _does it_ that pisses him off.

Like, the whole deal with Mrs. Finch, and if Camille had just told him what the situation was straight off, then Bobby would've had no problem whatsoever with the old bitty coming over and chowing down on the big day. Apparently, for the last few years, Ma's been having Mrs. Finch come over for holiday dinners and the like, had even knitted her stuff, given her leftovers afterward -- the whole nine yards. Lady doesn't have any real family left, and she and Ma had always got on real well. It made sense. Plus, it was _Mom_. . . she always did that kind of stuff for people, and Bobby can even sort of remember seeing Mrs. Finch over here sometimes, back when he'd lived in the house as a kid.

So, it's really not that big of a deal, but Camille's still tried her damnedest to make it into one. Why couldn't she have just gone off and bitched the day away with her own folks, too, like fucking Sofi has?

Women. His brothers have shitty taste, that's for sure.

So the house is crowded, because along with Jerry and Camille and their two girls, and Mrs. Finch from down the block, and Bobby of course, there's Jackie and then there's Jackie's. . . friend, Randy, who no one knows quite what to make of, especially Camille. Bobby thinks that right there is reason enough to keep the kid around, but, the fact is, the kid's also been pretty damn useful.

Two weeks ago, the guy shows up at the front door right around dinner time, some bag over his shoulder and a guitar case in his hand, and straight off asks Bobby, "Is Jack here?"

And Bobby still wonders what the kid would've done if Jackie _hadn't_ been here cos from the sound of things, it doesn't seem like Randall had had any sort of plan of action for when he actually got into town. Bobby's gotta give him some points for that. Not everyone would just drop everything to come rushing to Detroit. For a band mate.

Guess they _are_ friends.

So Bobby lets the kid in -- couldn't be more than 19 years old -- and Jackie's sitting on the couch at that point, just watching some garbage TV show.

"You know this dude?" Bobby asks.

Jackie blinks, and swallows, and then the corners of his mouth turn up. He isn't looking at Bobby when he says, "Sure do."

So later, when Bobby's getting ready to hoist Jack up from the sofa for dinner, he jerks his head at Randy to come over and help. And when, between the two of them, they've successfully schlepped Jackie all the way to the table, it only makes sense to then have the kid sit down with 'em. Bobby'd made plenty of food, and it was nice to have someone around who wasn't injured, or pretty much high all the time, or in a funk the size of Texas.

Then, Randy just sort of sticks around.

Bobby tells him he can sleep in Angel's old room, and then tries to grill him, with Jackie sitting right there so it isn't even out of bounds, about all this band stuff the two of them have been up to. And it doesn't sound too bad. Weeks ago, Bobby had laughed off Jack's claims of having lots of fans as just him bragging, but Randy backs up the story. Sounds like they really _are_ doing well. Or, were-- they _were_ doing well.

"What's the name of this band you guys got going?" Bobby asks him, noticing as he turns to look at Randy that, beside him on the sofa, Jackie's conked out again.

"We Spares," Randy answers, and like a pro he doesn't say anything when Bobby then swallows hard and has to excuse himself cos he just fucking 'got' it.

 

Later, they awkwardly haul Jack up the stairs together, and then, the next day, Randy comes with them to Jack's therapy session. Two nights after he first shows up, Randy cooks a meal and it's passable. The day after that, Bobby comes downstairs and finds him putting soap in the machine for a load of laundry.

So Bobby leaves him to it, lets him pull his weight around the place, and is kind of fucking glad to do so. He's better with Jack than Bobby is, gets the brat to easily do stuff just by asking that, from anyone else, from _Bobby_ , would require shouting and insults. Randy's pretty bland, and kind of annoying, but he's also handy to have around and easy to pick on for laughs, and he gets shit done and doesn't complain too much.

And so, last week, Bobby had gone out and managed to scrounge up for himself a legit part-time job -- at the rink, no less, even if it is just custodial shit. Then Christmas is rolling around, and Jerry starts making noise about getting the family together or some crap.

So Bobby buys a fucking big-ass ham cos they're not doing turkey again. Then, he makes Randy help him put up Christmas lights outside, and do up a decent-sized tree in the living room because no way is Bobby going to be forced to listen to Camille bitch all day about how he's let the place go and it's not fit for her kids to play in -- never mind the fact that Bobby pretty much re-did the entire front portion of the house after the shoot-out, by _himself_ , with only some help here and there from Angel and Jerry. 

Christmas is different from Thanksgiving all right, and the biggest difference is that they're not all here for a funeral. Ma's gone, and Angel's overseas, but the rest of 'em are all still here.

Jackie's still here, even if he does feel like shit.

Even if he can't sing anymore, at least he's alive.

***

 _Luscious Life_ is the first collection of almost entirely new material from We Spares in more than three years. Their previous release, _Where We Spare_ , was the long-awaited collection of songs from the band's early days, those featuring Jack Mercer on vocals, prior to his shooting and numerous health problems. Mercer's influence can clearly be heard throughout this new full-length record, for as Michael Frerichs of _Rolling Stone_ so aptly put it last year, "Mercer is the hand inside the glove. He is the puppet master, and it is his voice in every song, no matter the fact that someone else is actually singing."

Perhaps that has something to do with why bassist Randy Jinds is featured most often on vocals. He sings a total of 5 of the 11 songs on _Luscious Life_ , including arguably the two most depressing, desolate songs in the entire We Spares catalogue. Comparing Jinds' voice to those "re-mastered" tracks featuring the young Mercer, one can do the aural equivalent of squinting and nearly succeed in believing it's the same person. The band's drummer, Kevin Izer-Donaldson, contributes vocals for two songs, one of which is the standout cover of Bob Dylan's "Girl from the North Country," already released last month as a single.

The title track is the only real misstep on the album, for the sole reason that it doesn't match the other songs in either mood or sound. "Luscious Life" itself is a gorgeous song, with a lush arrangement showcasing both Mitch Mooney's smooth voice, eerily reminiscent of Jeff Buckley, and his talent on the piano. It's melancholic to be sure, but nowhere near as overwhelmingly depressing as the rest of the album.

One has to wonder at Mercer's state of mind as he wrote the music for this outing. In terms of technical skill and execution, this is an amazing collection of songs, easily on par with, and in most cases, surpassing, the band's previous work. The album's overall tone, however, is one of such relentless misery and loss that simply listening to it stirs up uncomfortable doubts about the songwriter's mental health. And in fact, the entire album is additionally overshadowed by the inclusion of the first and last tracks, as these two feature Mercer on vocals. The first, the "re-mastered" "Before Destruction," showcases Mercer's skill at packing meaning into a sparse arrangement. His voice is truly something to behold, powerful, emotional, and yet subtle as he effortlessly sings an adapted passage from the Old Testament. "Before destruction a man's heart is haughty." This first track also contains some of Mercer's most revealing lyrics. "Everyone loves you for your black eye/They feast on the abundance of your house, your love."

In stark contrast to "Before Destruction," the last song on _Luscious Life_ registers as an overpowering extravaganza of sound. "Winding Sheets" is three guitar melodies and a heavy bass line all duking it out for auditory supremacy, whilst simultaneously weaving dizzily around Izer-Donaldson's rapid, gunfire-like drumming, and with a heavy sprinkling of electronic feedback as the cherry on top. Flitting through the second half of this monster of a song is a soft, thin, quavering voice, singing brokenly about a "forever bolted, locked door." It doesn't take a genius to decipher the true meaning of the metaphor, as one listens almost heartbrokenly to what Mercer has become -- a man crushed by the loss of his own voice.

In that same _Rolling Stone_ article of Michael Frerichs', the style and vocal techniques of an early, healthy Jack Mercer were controversially lined up and compared, point-by-point, against those of late rock pioneer Ian Reddin. One more similarity between the two men's voices should be mentioned: one cannot help now but think "what if" when listening to recordings of both men singing.  
   
***

 


	3. Chapter 3

_. . .  ilm News: Musicians Jack Mercer, Mitch Mooney, and the rock band We Spares are now confirmed as being onboard to score the new Gabrielle Harmon project. Tentatively titled "Loneliest", the film is said to be the fictionalized account of one 36-hour period in the life of a bank manager, following the closure of his branch in wake of recent economic recession. This news comes hard on the heels of numerous casting rumors surrounding the project, some of which claimed director Harmon was approached to helm the production only after A-lister Wendell Kite reportedly backed out due to issues with the script. Mercer and Mooney are contracted to write instrumental music for the film, along with as many as six new songs._

***

No one said anything about multiple gunshot wounds. Honestly, when Jack had told him he'd been shot, Randy's brain had somehow just automatically translated that to "grazed."

But nobody had even mentioned that it'd happened more than once. Randy walked in expecting a fucked-up story and Jack sporting another scar. What he got instead was--

Well, first there was the brother. No-- no, first there was the phone call, and, yeah, Randy had been around Jack when he was high, and a whole helluva lot more often when he was drunk. During the phone call, though, it wasn't like either of those. It was more like Jack had just woken up, or, even scarier, and Randy wouldn't actually think this until much, much later, that first phone call with Jack before he knew anything had gone wrong. . . it was like someone else was speaking Jack's words, reading them aloud.

And, later, months, a year after that, Randy will be sitting across from Jack at a table in a bar, and Jack will say to him, "I've written a song for you to sing." And he'll say that in the exact same tone of voice and with about as much inflection as he'd earlier said, "Got shot, man. 'M sorry, Rands. Got-- got shot."

Jack wrote the words all right, and Randy and Kevin and Mitch, they all did their best to do those words justice, to make the songs fly, to show Jack. . . Well, Randy wasn't the guy behind the scenes, but he wasn't in the spotlight, either. Somehow, Jack had ended up in both spots, and maybe he didn't fully speak for Kevin and Mitch and the producers who helped them in the studio for the albums, but personally Randy just sort of took it as being his job to act on Jack's behalf.

He'd always had Randy's back, after all. For years and years, they'd been side-by-side, best friends, and Randy didn't have any brothers like Jack did, no sisters either, for that matter. He had his mom -- sometimes -- and a few second cousins, like Mark the dumbass who now calls Randy almost every month wanting back in the band, but fuck if that ship hadn't sailed a long time ago. (Jack had actually bent over laughing when Mark had called Randy that first time, which of course quickly slid into coughing, but Randy knew Jack considered it worth it. Jack had always hated Mark, and after the fiasco back in their early days in New York, Randy couldn't really blame him. Besides, Mark always _had been_ pretty. . . insufferable.)

So his family isn't all that big a deal to Randy.

Fact is, Jack's shown Randy more consideration over the years, and has been more interested in what he's had to say, than all of Randy's relatives combined. Jack, for all the shit that seems to follow behind him, is. . . he's the best thing to ever happen to Randy.

And so, the least he can do is give the guy a hand when some of that shit finally catches up with him. Jack Mercer is Randy's best friend. He's the guy who'd shown him better tricks on the bass and had taught him to play acoustic and straight-up electric guitars, the guy who's actually, on more than one occasion, punched someone out for Randy, the guy who split rent with him, who slept in the other Queen bed right next to his in every hotel room they stayed in, who always manages to score the best weed but has absolutely _shitty_ taste in booze.

Randy buys a plane ticket to Detroit less than two hours after getting off the phone with Jack, post-shooting. He drops everything, and just stuffs random, completely useless crap in a bookbag, grabs his bass, and at the last second remembers to lock up the apartment. Then he's out of there.

A year later, he'll say, "Of course, man. Whatever you need. You know I've always got your back." And Randy will sing that song that Jack wrote, and it will be their first real hit single, and in truth, Randy will never forgive himself for that.

And less than a year from then, maybe eight months later, when they're touring and Jack is constantly carrying that fucking oxygen tank around because no one ever remembers not to smoke around him and that shit always messes up his lungs even more, Randy will look over as Jack starts hacking and coughing up a storm again, and he'll think. . .

More than nine years after they first meet, six years after Jack's shot five times in the chest at close range, two after their first hit record, and one after the first tour but still a few months to go before the next, Randy will look over at Jack again like that time on the tour bus, only this time it isn't because Jack's coughing, and this time. . . Jack's looking back.

And maybe he and Jack aren't like brothers; maybe they're not as close as family.

Maybe, they're closer.

***

_. . . single from the newly released soundtrack for director Gabrielle Harmon's new feature film, "Loneliest", debuted at number one on the Billboard Top 100 this week. The song, "Winter", written and performed by rock band We Spares, appears in the final controversial moments of the film, and is already receiving wide critical acclaim._

***

It doesn't actually take as much convincing as Randy had thought it would. Besides himself, Kevin is the next onboard with the idea. Then, not too long after that, Mitch agrees, as long as they can set it up so that he can keep to his own schedule of solo events and gigs. Randy and Kevin and the managers all agree that's perfectly fine. Joyce and David are the new head honchos leading their collective entourage, and once three out of the four of them agree, the two execs commence the search for a director, staff, location, timeframe, blah, blah, blah.

They leave it to Randy to talk Jack into doing the music video, which just proves they're not as stupid as the last managers.

Not that there was any real doubt left in Randy's mind at this point, but it's always good to have confirmation that he's judged someone's character right. He'd thought both Joyce and David were competent when he'd first met them individually. Now he's more than sure.

Joyce is nice to the four of them, and to their families, close friends, significant others, etc. and she resembles nothing so much as a semi-bland, suburban, soccer mom, but to everyone not directly and pretty intimately connected to the band -- Joyce is the scariest motherfucker on the planet.

No one gets past her to them that she doesn't approve of or sign off on first. She even effectively, or at least more so than anyone else ever has, manages to rein in Kevin inside two and a half hours of meeting him, and it's _always_ Kevin at the center of every drama with the representation and marketing staffs. They never like Kevin. The band's had about six managers at this point, and all but one explicitly named Kevin as a deciding factor in their decision to quit, and that one who didn't is now Kevin's wife of three years, Audrey. It says quite a lot about Joyce Leights that she whips Kevin into shape faster and more thoroughly than even Audrey can, and that's the mother of two of his children and the one who controls the bank accounts.

David, on the other hand, is what everyone calls a rookie, a pretty boy, wet behind the ears, a photo op, a payoff. At least, that's what Randy's heard from Mitch, and if anyone hears the actual gossip swirling around them these days, it's Mitch, who's running just far enough away from the main pack that people tend to gab and run their mouths off near him. Mitch has a theory that when he's not immediately within eyeshot of Randy, Kevin, or Jack, that people in general and the media in particular forget he's actually _part_ of the band. And that would explain a lot of those rumors about them constantly breaking up, and all the in-fighting they're supposedly doing, because God forbid any of them have a life outside of the band.

But. David.

David Cochran showed up on a Tuesday morning at the door to the hotel room, and when Kevin asked what the guy was doing there, David said, "I'm being paid to help you do what you do. What do you guys need before you can cut another album?" And, sure, David -- never Dave, Davey, or any variation thereof -- is only 26, but he's got tons of connections in every business even theoretically connected to the music industry, and some definitely not. And, yeah, he's pretty damn good looking, but out here that only opens doors, never slams 'em shut.

And, frankly, the whole looks thing is the last reason to bash on someone. David's got a few moles on his face and his nose is kinda weird, and he's ridiculously tall, but also pretty gangly as far as that goes, and so Randy's almost certain that there's no work that's been done there. Now, _that_ would be a reason to hate on somebody, in Randy's opinion -- if they'd had plastic surgery just to get ahead out here in oh-so-sunny California. But David's nice; he actually does go above and beyond; and he's not an asshole sans moral compass. Three of the managers the band's had -- before Joyce and David, and then excluding Kevin's girl Audrey -- have been as heartless and ruthless as the most clichéd stereotype of a defense attorney ever imagined. And Randy knows lawyers by now. He's had more than enough dealings with them over the years.

Besides, what it always boils down to in the end, at least in Randy's opinion, and Kev and Mitch are never too far behind him on this score, is the question of whether or not Jack likes somebody, respects them, gets along and can work with them. There's no illusion between the three of them that Jack is anything but the leader of the band. Mitch is the only one who could ever really give him a run for his money in that department, but behind Randy he's the last guy who ever would. Kev, who always gets into trouble, who's spoiled and sarcastic and pulls pranks on everybody and probably would die within a week if he didn't have like ten people looking after him and coordinating his every move, is more likely to-- to stage a fucking coup than Mitch is.

Some interviewer a few years ago had asked them why they thought they'd never split the band on bad terms, and Jack had spoken for them all when he'd answered, Kevin laughing and nodding along from his spot on the couch. "It's those good, strong values, man," Jack had said. "Mitch and Randy are both from small towns in the middle of nowhere -- uh, relatively speaking. But, honestly, Kevin and I are the fuck-ups here. If the band splits, it's gonna be because these two 've finally gotten fed up with this guy's antics, or my. . . baggage. Probably start their own version of Wings."

Jack jokes about it a lot, but Randy's sure he's gotta know it by now: none of them would be here, with everything they have and have accomplished, without Jack. Jack and Mitch collaborate on the sound of the music, for the most part, with a few exceptions here and there, but the lyrics and the overall direction of the band are _always_ Jack. Jack is the brain, the mind, the soul.

And Jack really, really likes Joyce, and he doesn't seem to mind David always being here, so both of them will probably stick around for awhile. Jack's certainly more polite to David than he is to a lot of the wranglers in their lives, and there has yet to be even a single fight or loud disagreement between Jack and David. That's what really seals the deal. For all that Kevin's the explicit reason those other managers gave for quitting, none of them ever managed to ingratiate themselves with Jack, either.

Several times, the record label's tried to talk them into finding a new drummer. In the long run, though, a manager's always gonna be easier to replace than a drummer who's been with them for almost a decade, even if the guy in question really is just an overgrown child who at all times requires a babysitter. Still, when all else fails, and they're fighting and bickering and ticked off at each other for one reason or another, there's still no question of splitting up the band. Execs come and go, but We Spares has stood for seven years, with never a line-up change or falling out. They've survived: wives (collectively: 3); kids (4, altogether); tours (2, plus the USO stint); side acts (Mitch); scandals (3, at best guess); numerous successes and a few supposed flops (depending on who you're asking); Kevin's drama (ongoing); and probably the biggest obstacle of them all, Jack's terrible luck and poor fucking health, and the fact that he got pumped full of bullets right as they'd started taking off, robbing them of a steady lead singer, and leaving the band musically in a no-man's land between instrumental post-rock and alternative-rock, with Randy, Mitch, and Kev alternating on lead vocals.

Basically, they had their act the most together when they were the least successful -- years ago in NYC when all they played were hipster bars and the occasional bigger music nights along with five other bands. These days, with Randy, Mitch, and Kevin all singing lead at one point or another, We Spares is more like three or four bands than just one. At any rate, that's the way it sounds, and an arrangement like what they have wouldn't work with just anyone. Anybody but Mitch and Randy and Kevin, and Jack would've been kicked out when he couldn't sing anymore, or at least another full-time singer would've been brought in, but that hadn't even come up, ever. None of them had suggested that. When Randy got to Detroit, and after he saw Jack at his brother's house, he called up Mitch and. . . and even then, when they all thought they knew the dream was dead, even then nobody dared say, 'What if we just get another singer?' We Spares was We Spares. Wasn't no changing it. If one of them couldn't, wouldn't, do it, then it was over.

So, Kevin's an ass, but he's not going anywhere either, and, frankly, none of them are dumb enough to even suggest he shape up. That'd just be asking for worse. Reverse psychology is a bitch, and with Kevin it only works one way, so it's not so much telling him not to do something that he then turns around and immediately does, as it is his former-junkie brain misinterpreting a warning for a dare. And it never works the other way. Jack once snapped at Kevin that he should just show up all crazy to an album launch party like he always does, and Kevin didn't get that Jack was trashing on him, and trying to get him to act decent in public for once. No, instead, Kev had shown up wearing a thong, cowboy boots, and a ski mask, and accompanied by his son William, who was three then and thought it was all a game.

God, had their manager at the time had something to say about that. Randy and Jack had skipped out on studio time the next day just to avoid the fallout, but that still didn't save them from hearing about it later, in detail.

They all need a certain amount of wrangling, some more than others, and basically Joyce is now the surrogate mother of the band, even though she's only 14 years older than the oldest of them, Kevin. (Although, that's physical age. In terms of maturity, Jack, who's actually six years younger than Kev, has got him beat, hands down. Mentally, even Mitch who's the youngest of them all, younger even than wet-behind-the-ears-David, is about 15 years Kevin's senior.) But Joyce is ruthless when she has to be, and always knows what they need before they do, and she doesn't take shit from anyone -- Jack least of all, oddly enough.

And if Joyce is the den-mother, then David's probably the equivalent of a Pledge, or the bossy little brother they pretend to grudgingly put up with, but secretly love showing off to.

Kevin teases and pranks the guy, sure, but he still listens to him to a certain extent, or as much as he listens to anyone. Besides, Kev's always been more at home around the roadies, anyway -- used to be one, in fact, which makes a lot of sense.

Randy, meanwhile, has found through experience that David is one of the few other sane, reasonable people around, which means he's another body in the never-ending battle against the massive crazy that is the We Spares machine. He makes a point of always being nice to David, but then Randy's found that in this business. . . it's simply smart to be at least superficially nice to _everyone_. Never know when someone's going to fuck things up just for 15 minutes of fame, and between Kevin and Jack, someone has to play it safe.

As for Mitch, he pretty much ignores David unless it's something really important, but that's really only because he's hardly ever around these days. Mitch used to be the other buffer, and Randy's still kind of ticked off that now that duty's fallen solely to him. Used to be so much easier when they were both here to calm everyone down.

Jack of course goes to Joyce first, but Randy's noticed that David's usually right over there with them when they're talking or plotting or whatever it is that Jack and Joyce discuss. David's here all the time, so he must be doing something right, and he hasn't stumbled into any sore spots -- like Jack's health or Kevin's kids -- which means he's not only smart, but also tactful. And he's not a hothead. Even Joyce is a hothead. She yells quite a lot, actually, and now it's almost normal for Randy to come into a room and hear her bellowing -- mostly _with_ Jack, who always gives as good as he gets, and _at_ Kevin, who just later fights back in a different way.

So far, none of them have fought with David.

Although, where that's a good sign with three of them, with Jack that probably means he's not really comfortable around David yet. Nothing's perfect. Jack truly only fights and mouths off to a person for three reasons (though number three can easily apply to both the previous two).

One, Jack hates the person in question and doesn't think very highly of him or her and has no problem saying so.  
Two, he likes (or loves, in some cases) the person and believes at the very least that he's liked enough in return that even if he disagrees. . . he'll _still_ be liked, in spite of any differences of opinion.  
Three, he feels like shit and just unloads on whoever's in closest proximity to him at the time.

Now, David's almost a sure bet at being past reason number one, and is more than likely currently on the outskirts of being included in reason number two, where Joyce and the rest of them are firmly entrenched. If he sticks around for another few months, he'll no doubt at some point wind up on the wrong end of a Jack Mercer tongue lashing, and that's the real initiation.

As for reason number three. . . David really does just have that awesome a sense of timing. That first knock on the hotel door? That had come roughly five minutes after Jack's angry exit, following more bad news from one of his doctors. If David had arrived just five minutes earlier, he probably wouldn't still be working for them (and _that_ tongue lashing would've been quite the doozy). Jack's usually pissiest when it has something to do with his health, and that was the day he'd found out the surgery he'd been hoping for was deemed too risky. So when that knocking came at the door, both Kevin and Randy had just looked at each other and Randy had known they were both thinking the same thing -- what did Jack forget and how long before he storms off again after retrieving it?

Randy likes to think that, in retrospect, everyone's glad it was David that morning at the door, and not Jack. That was the same afternoon that Jack wrote "Winter," lyrics, music, and all. If he'd come back any earlier, if he hadn't been as pissed off and depressed and devastated as he'd been following that bad news from his doctor. . . they wouldn't have that song, that beautiful, sad-as-shit song that made them all Oscar winners (insanely weird as that still is), and really set them apart, musically, from every other band out there.

David's not there yet, no, but soon he will be. The odds are in his favor, and Randy doesn't know why Jack hasn't warmed to him yet.

He does know Jack, though, and so it's really just a matter of when, not if, Jack cottons on to the fact that David. . . actually appears to be on their side.

***

_. . . pares' Jack Mercer and Randy Jinds were in attendance at the Rock N' Roll Hall of Fame Induction ceremony last night, performing onstage alongside Red Stars front man Blake Wright, and Steelhead Slammers drummer Jens Larsen. The four rock dynamos performed a rousing cover of "The House of the Rising Sun" to positive recep. . ._

***

Randy's learned the hard way, through trial and _repetitive major_ error, that when he asks Jack if he's okay and receives a longwinded answer in response, that means Jack is in fact _not_ okay, or anything resembling okay.

Randy's learned this as a result of him having asked the question just after: Jack's tried to pick a fight; he's finished throwing shit around; he's hung up the phone on any one of his four doctors; or he's encountered something specific that sets him off for some reason. He asked 'before' because he wanted to help Jack, because he could tell Jack wasn't okay, but didn't know a better way to ask what was wrong and whether or not there was anything he, Randy, his friend, could do to help. _Now_ , though, these days out here in L.A. have made it harder than it used to be in New York, and way trickier than Chicago had ever been. (And, remembering how shitty their apartments had been back then and how little money they'd had, he finds it surreal and depressing just how much he actually longs for a return to those uncomplicated days.)

 _Now_ , Randy has to ask because he honestly doesn't know for sure. Jack doesn't tell him as much, doesn't share as much, as he used to -- or as much as Randy had used to think he did. Randy feels like everyone and their dog is coming to him for advice all the time on the best ways to deal with Jack because Randy's known Jack the longest of anyone out here, and is some kind of expert on all things Jack Mercer apparently, but Randy. . .

Half the time he doesn't even who Jack _is_ , and it's _always_ been like that. He just didn't know any better because he didn't know jack about Jack in those days, and it was probably easy as pie to shine him on back then.

Case in point, Randy didn't even know the guy had any family until suddenly he's listening to a message left on his voicemail with Jack saying his mom's just died and he has to go home "to help my brothers take care of stuff," and then rattling off a number where he thinks Randy could reach him "if that's ever an issue, man." Jack had never talked about where he'd come from, or anything not music, in fact, so the existence of a family comes as something of a surprise. And then suddenly, Jack's just up and gone, gone back to _Detroit_ for Christ's sake, and _then_ it's two weeks of radio silence before Randy figures maybe he'd better check in, make sure Jack's. . . okay, or whatever, only to end up finding out that Jack "got shot, Rands," and is evidently, from the sound of it, higher than a fucking kite on pain meds. Oh, and his brother's an ass.

And that was just the first time Randy was left out of the loop, and the only one that was really understandable, easily dismissed and forgiven. After all, getting shot five times and then being on heavy medication -- yeah, Randy can understand Jack not calling him then, not telling him what was up.

It's all the shit afterward that Jack kept hiding from him that really. . . makes Randy feel like throwing his hands up in the air and just asking, "Are we even friends, man? Do you not trust me? What's with all the goddamned secrets?"

Because he tells _Jack_ everything -- really, truly, pretty much everything he would be interested to know, and a whole helluva lot he probably couldn't care less about. Because, here Randy was thinking that's what a guy did when he was partners with someone in a band for years, and, oh yeah, was best friends with him, too.

Silly him.

So, 'before,' when Randy didn't know any better , when he didn't know there _was_ anything to be hidden or lied about, he'd ask Jack if he was okay because that's what people do when someone they care about is fucking upset. It was a segue or a transition or a whateverthefuck, a conversation starter.

 _Now_ , though, now he has to ask if Jack's okay because he honestly can't tell anymore. Half the time, depending on who else is in the room, Jack is just an asshole apparently for the hell of it. Now he's gotten to where he just messes with people -- managers and wannabes and groupies, people he hates and makes fun of -- and when he starts in with his jaded rocker routine, Randy a lot of the time has to ask what the deal is just to make sure it's still an act and not. . . Jack actually feeling bad.

And if Randy asks him then, when Jack's acting obviously _not_ okay, and Jack responds _verbally_. . . Randy's figured out that that means Jack's lying to him, and it means he's _not_ faking it. In fact, Randy's come to the pretty certain conclusion that the more Jack talks, by and large, the worse he's actually feeling, and then that increases the likelihood that he'll lie, poorly, to Randy's face trying to hide that fact.

Sometimes, yes, Jack will chatter and ramble and it won't necessarily mean he's one step away from trashing the room or doing his best to drink himself into alcohol poisoning -- or other things no one likes to think about -- but those times are few and far between and most often the result of Jack being stoned out of his mind. The angrier Jack is, the more trashed his rooms are. The sadder or more depressed he is. . . the more he trashes _himself_ , the more arguments he picks, and the more he lies. Or, well, in all honesty, _tries_ to lie. Jack can act quite convincingly, to both strangers and people like Randy alike, but somehow he can't manage to outright tell a convincing lie to anyone who really knows him. It's a mystery how that works, but it's damned handy.

So, Randy knows Jack better these days, only in that he knows he doesn't know him all that well at all, really. Seven years ago, if someone had asked him whether he and Jack were best friends, Randy wouldn't've hesitated in answering "yes." Now, though, now he knows _he_ feels that way about Jack, but he doesn't. . . he doesn't in all honesty know if Jack feels that way about _him_.

He thinks so. He likes to think he's Jack's best friend. He likes to think Jack thinks so, too.

Randy likes to think they were always best friends, from the time they met, onward. But who the hell really knows? What Randy thought was them hitting it off right away might've been just another conversation to Jack.

See, seven years ago, Randy and his cousin Mark decided to hit up a bar which one of Mark's buddies had raved about. Apparently, this friend of Mark's was also friends with the bar's doorman and that's how Randy and Mark even got in, considering they'd both been 18 with kinda _really_ crappy fake IDs. So they go, and they're there for awhile, and then Randy went to reach for an extra cocktail napkin to sop up some beer he'd just been jostled into spilling. And as he craned across Mark for the napkin -- Mark, who was busy chatting up some girls he'd wind up going off with not ten minutes later -- Randy picked up on the fact that the guy next to his cousin was sort of semi-humming, semi-singing under his breath. The tune was familiar, but he couldn't place it right away. So Randy grabbed a napkin, soaked up the beer he'd spilled on the bar top, and worked at mentally running through a list of possible songs.

And then he got it. Randy wasn't even half-tuned into Mark's conversation with the girls, and he was lifting his mug of beer to his mouth just as he figured out that that dude on the other side of Mark? He was singing Prince's " _Darling Nikki_ " of all things, and seemed to be getting progressively louder in doing so, at that.

Randy ended up almost spitting out his beer on the bar top when he realized what the song was. And that struck him as being pretty damn funny, considering the reason he'd almost done so was because he'd just by chance leaned close enough to hear the song being sung, after having spilled some of the very same beer earlier he'd now just narrowly avoided spitting out in surprise, and he'd only been close enough to hear the tune in the first place because he'd reached over to get a napkin, and that brought him closer to the guy singing the, in all actuality, pretty dirty song, and now. . .

All of this probably made a lot more sense and was no doubt world's funnier back then.

So Randy had laughed, and then, getting himself together and feeling like he had nothing to lose, he'd leaned on the bar and stretched over to sort of shout towards the dude, "'Darling Nikki', right?"

And what he got in response wasn't a nod or the guy stopping to talk to him. No, instead, dude looked Randy right in the eyes, grinned, and then abruptly belted out the next two lines of the song.

She said, "Sign your name on the dotted line!"/  
The lights went out, and Nikki started to _grind_./  
 _Oh_ , Nikki!

People turned to look, various expressions on their faces. A few people in a booth towards the back even applauded, to which the guy raised a shot of something in acknowledgement before slamming it back, his eyes coming back to Randy as he did.

Mark of course turned and said something like, "Dude, what the fuck?" but Randy just stayed where he was, unable to keep from grinning back at the guy.

"You gonna do the rest of the song, too?" he called out, raising his eyebrows.

Another grin. "Depends," the guy tossed back, moving forward to put his elbows on the bar and sort of craning around Mark like Randy was. "You think I'll get some free drinks out of it?"

Randy laughed. "Maybe to shut you up!" he retorted, which just made the other guy laugh. "Hey, my name's Randy!" he suddenly said loudly over the noise of the bar, mentally wincing at how lame he sounded.

"Jack!" the guy said back.

And Randy could remember thinking 'this guy is cool.'

Then, more than seven years later, Randy's driving over to Jack's house near the beach, when a familiar song starts up on the radio. And Randy laughs because that's so fucking typical. He laughs so hard he has to wipe tears from his eyes, and when that one part of the song comes up, Randy sings along as loud as he fucking can, more shouting it on-pitch, really.

She said, "Sign your name on the dotted line!"/  
The lights went out, and Nikki started to grind./  
Oh, Nikki!

After he pulls up to the gate, and gets buzzed in, and drives up the road, and parks in front -- when he's ringing the doorbell, but before the door's answered -- as he's mentally still replaying that song in his head -- it occurs to Randy that maybe he's been feeling it this whole time, and just hasn't realized it.

Or just doesn't know who he's really feeling it _for_ , doesn't know the guy well enough -- still, after all these years.

Maybe he's had these feelings for Jack. . . for a long time, and just lied to himself about them being all about 'friendship' and not all about. . . 

That's of course when the door opens, and Randy's suddenly face to face with the guy who occupies 90% of his thoughts on a daily basis.

And that's of course when, as Randy's still smiling and fucking basking in memories of the good old Chicago days, Jack pulls the door open all the way and Randy spots the blood on his shirt.

"What the-- Jack, is that _blood_?" he stammers out, immediately moving forward and scanning what he can see of Jack's person in an attempt to find the source.

Jack slowly backs up, the alcohol fumes keeping his spot warm for him. Randy coughs as he finally gets all the way inside the house and catches sight of the disaster area it now is. He's still trying to wrangle Jack in an effort to find out where that blood came from -- is _coming_ from? -- but of course Jack's not cooperating.

He never does when he's hammered.

"Jack, what did you do, man?" Randy asks, grabbing him by his shoulders and sort of shaking him to try and keep his drunken focus.

Jack shrugs in Randy's grip. He rolls his eyes and even grins, although the sight makes Randy kind of sick to look at. It's not a nice grin.

"Dude," Jack says, his voice especially raspy and even that one syllable is drawn out and slurred, " 's nothing. Just relivin' the glory days, man." And he laughs, that sick, almost fucking sobbing, _barking_ laugh he does anymore. Then he of course coughs.

Randy sighs, and is utterly confused, and even starts kind of patting Jack down in an effort to just find out where the hell the blood came from and how serious it is and, hey, if he's carrying a knife or some shit around with him still that--

"Can't do it as good as I used to," Jack suddenly slurs out, and it's-- just something about it makes Randy stop what he's doing and look Jack in the eyes again.

"Jack?" he asks, and it feels like they're both at the edge of something, one breath away from tipping over into--

Another shrug, another bitter grin. "He left already," Jack tells Randy. "Wasn't-- wasn't into it, he said. Told me-- he told me I should _see_ someone." Then it's that laughter again and more coughing, and just as Randy's about to demand Jack spit it out because he's seriously freaking him out right now, Jack slurs something like, "Hard to go deep when I can't hold m' breath."

"Jack. . . what the hell are you talking about? What'd you _do_?"

"Razor's in the bathroom," Jack suddenly says, staring Randy right in the eyes. "Stomach's not a good idea, I guess." He lifts his shirt up, and Randy's got his hands still up on Jack's shoulders, and he can't feel his legs or his face or anything but shock.

Because Jack's stomach is a bloody, cut-up mess, and in the time between when Randy calls 911 and when the ambulance arrives in the driveway right next to his parked car, Jack drunkenly lets Randy know a lot of what he hadn't before.

Needless to say, he doesn't tell Jack's brother Bobby about any of it -- kind of assuming, which years later he'll find out he was right to do, that Bobby and the other two brothers already knew all about Jack's history -- and he doesn't think the other guys in the band really need to know the details, either. So Randy supposes he keeps secrets, too. He keeps Jack's secrets.

And, from that day forward, Jack's a lot easier to figure out. At least, to Randy, he is.

It finally feels like they're on even footing, after that. And whenever some interviewer or groupie or one of their fleeting band wranglers brings up Jack's temper, or in the latter case says he has 'issues,' Randy has to resist the urge to say, "You have no idea."

Randy knows Jack now, knows almost all of him, or at least _most_ of him. And, when they're both riding in the ambulance -- because he couldn't take the thought of leaving Jack alone in there with just the paramedics after that confession of his, simply so he could get in his own car and follow behind -- that's the moment Randy finally figures out something else.

He figures out what he's been feeling this whole time, for seven years, and he figures out who he's been feeling it _for_.

He finally knows who he's in love with, and it's not Jack Mercer: rock god, asshole, and bad boy extraordinaire. It's not that guy who rages for an audience, and enjoys shooting his mouth off to everyone.

Randy is best friends with that guy, sure, and he's also best friends with the guy who: got drunk in a bar in Chicago all those years back and belted out a couple lines of a Prince song; is really the only person alive who can successfully pull off a prank on the King of Pranks, Kevin; has two cool older brothers, and another one who's an even bigger ass than he is, and that right there is saying something.

But the person Randy's in love with is really none of those guys specifically, but a combination of them all, and more besides who no one else ever sees -- like the messed-up guy who drinks too much because he misses singing like his voice was his twin brother, and that sad fucking kid, that kid Randy wants nothing more than to just hug the shit out of and say, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry that happened to you. But please don't do that stuff anymore. You don't have to."

And, really, if someone were to ask Randy now if he and Jack were best friends, he'd say, "Yeah, you bet."

And then he'd look at Jack and grin at him, and the man he loved would smirk back, and that'd be about as close to the real Jack as anybody could get.

Well, anybody not Randy, that is. Randy gets the whole package. When Jack confesses _what he was trying to do with that razor blade_ , in the living room of his house as Randy presses a towel to his stomach -- when he says things like " _touched_ " and " _didn't say a word_ " and " _it hurt_ ," as Randy finds he himself is crying, but Jack isn't -- when the guy he's known for more than seven years tells him that " _for awhile there. . . I just took their money, and it wasn't that big of a deal. It wasn't. Didn't hurt by then. And I was good at it_." Randy knows Jack just gave him. . . something.

Maybe, he thinks later, watching Jack sleep in the hospital bed, maybe he's finally gotten inside the walls, like he let Jack in that very first night.

And it only took him seven years.

And, by God. . . if it wasn't worth it.

*** 

_. . . category of Best Original Song, the frontrunner is clearly "Winter," from the "Loneliest" soundtrack. Written and performed by the rock band We Spares, the song is a tragic look at desperation and suicide set against the backdrop of the recent economic crisis. The song has been both a commercial and critical success, as well as garnering. . ._

***

They're in with the stylist, trying on different "ensembles" -- a word he and Kev both silently agree to _never_ use -- and Randy's about two steps away from losing it. He was three away this morning, and now he's two, and if he's not done with this crap in the next 30 minutes. . . he is so going to rip everyone a new one, specifically the two shitheads who _aren't_ here sharing his torment.

"Here, what about this piece?" Chelsea, the stylist, asks him, holding out some kind of suit jacket with way too many fucking buttons climbing up the front of it. It's not ugly, exactly, but it's not anything Randy particularly wants to put on, either. Looks like something Mitch would wear, to be honest, and that makes him look around for Kevin, who he sees is currently getting fussed over by one of Chelsea's assistants about a pair of pants. Randy manages to catch Kev's eyes across the way, and then gestures to the jacket in Chelsea's hands.

Kev actually snorts before he grins, and then shakes his head. "Ah, Rands, my man!" he calls out. "Now _that_ is the look for you." Kev starts moving around and the assistant who's doing something down on the floor with the bottoms of Kevin's pants startles a bit. She looks up at Kev, and then follows his line of sight over to Randy, and then makes a face before going back to. . . hemming? Or something? Must be kind of sucky work, in Randy's opinion, especially when she's got to work with guys like Kev, who's got his hands up in the air now and is moving around a lot as he attempts to mime something. . .

Randy frowns, trying to figure out what he's missing because whatever Kev's trying to get across is completely going over his head.

"It is _not_ a woman's jacket, you ass!" Chelsea suddenly shouts right by Randy's ear, and she sounds more annoyed than pissed, but not by much. Of course, Randy gets the joke now, and he laughs and that makes Kevin throw his head back and laugh too, which makes the girl fussing with his cuffs sigh. And all of that, when Randy finally turns back to Chelsea, is probably why he finds himself on the wrong end of a death-glare.

He is then guilted into putting on the stupid jacket, which makes Kev laugh like a hyena and say something suspiciously like, " _That'll_ win him over," which Randy doesn't even want to consider the meaning behind. But Randy's saved when Chelsea squints at him as he's deliberately hunching in the thing, and pronounces a disappointed, "No, that's not working," before gesturing for him to take off the jacket and hand it back to her.

"Thank God," Randy carefully mutters, with an eye on Chelsea's back as she resumes rifling through the racks of clothing. They've been here for almost an hour, and while Kev's received the okay on a complete three-piece suit, sans tie, Randy himself hasn't managed to get even a stitch of his stupid "ensemble" pulled together yet. This is pathetic.

"Dude, cheer up!" Kev suddenly says, and his voice is close by. Randy turns, and Kevin's walking over to him as he simultaneously buttons and zips up his regular jeans. He's barefoot still, and that's when Randy notices that for some reason the toenails of Kev's right foot are painted pink. "Dude," Kev repeats, this time in a questioning sort of way. He's now right beside Randy, and then Kev reaches out with his hand to pat Randy's shoulder, probably in some weird attempt at consoling him.

"Why are your-- ?" he starts to ask, but then changes his mind, cutting himself off and saying instead, "No, you know, I don't even want to know why your toenails have fucking polish on 'em." Randy sighs, though it comes out as more of a growl really, and then he brings his hands up to his face and just scrubs real hard. He feels like screaming in frustration because this shit is just ridiculous and pointless, and he feels like he's never going to find anything deemed "appropriate" to wear to the goddamn motherfucking Oscars, and why do they have to go anyway? Stupid Jack and Mitch and their retarded ideas. This is _stupid_.

"Jesus, calm down," Kev tells him, and any other time Randy would be amazed at how serious and mature the guy sounds, but right now he's just. . . he's too pissed off.

It doesn't help that Mitch isn't being forced to go through this farce because his stupid girlfriend _is_ a designer, or that fucking Jack outright refused to come down here, like a pussy, and spent breaks in their studio time last night making cracks about double-stick tape and spring colors. Randy wishes he could get away with half the crap Jack does. It's simply not fair, and Randy's probably going to wind up stuffed into some tuxedo while the other three all wear their normal shit, and everyone watching will think Randy's just some lame tool they called in to play at the last second.

Chelsea comes back at that moment, and Randy doesn't know if what's in her hand is a shirt or another fucking jacket, but it's bright, bright purple and he is _not putting it on_.

"Oh, hell no!" he says to her, and she gets that squinty look again, but he's not scared of her. "No. Nuh-uh."

"It's very hip-- "

Kev immediately busts a gut, and Randy scowls.

"I don't care!" he tells her, and he's trying to keep his voice down, he really is, but this is just so. . . _stupid_. "Do I look 'hip' to you?" he finally asks her, going for a different angle. "Look, I don't know what's 'in' or 'out' or 'last year' or what the fuck ever, and, frankly, I don't give a fuck." Kev makes another little sound in his throat, and Randy shoots him a quick glare before going to back to Chelsea. "I just-- let me put it this way: I don't want to look like a dork, okay?" He points at the neon purple thing in her hand and says, "And that will make me look like a dork. I promise you. _Trust me_ on this."

Out of the corner of his eye, Randy can see Kevin nod in agreement. "So true," Kev offers, and normally Randy would hit him for saying something like that, but. . . it _is_ true. The whatever-it-is is hideous. Not even the best looking model in the world would be able to pull that look off.

Chelsea's still standing there with the "garment," but she doesn't look so pissed anymore. Randy thinks he's getting through to her, maybe, and just goes with his gut and says, "Just. . . give me something that won't stand out, but doesn't make me look like I'm going to the prom, and I'll be all set. Okay?"

There's silence for a few seconds, and then Chelsea looks down at the purple thing she's holding. When she lifts her head up again, she's got a smile on her face, and Randy hopes that's the good kind of smile, and not the--

"No 'hip' then," she says, and both Randy and Kev let out sighs of relief. Kev slaps him on the arm in a sort of congratulations, and then heads back over to the chairs where his boots and the rest of his shit are stashed. Chelsea, meanwhile, is hanging the purple-thing back up -- which, okay, appears to be a shirt, _but still_ \-- when all of a sudden, she quickly pivots on one of her heels and asks, "How do you feel about blue?"

And Randy just closes his eyes and finds himself actually praying that this will not be a disaster. He misses the days when he didn't even own a pair of pants that weren't jeans, let alone a freakin' suit.

Fuckin' Mitch and Jack, being all unsurprisingly great at writing music and getting nominated for Best Original Song and Best Score. It's all their fault.

But, when it comes down to it, Randy has to admit. . .

He looks pretty good in blue, even if he does still feel like a humongous dork.

***  
 _ ___

 _ _  
_. . . performed their Oscar nominated song live last night at the Academy Awards, despite circulating rumors of guitarist Mercer suffering a nearly crippling case of stage fright prior to the televised broadc. . ._ __  
  
***

Between the three of them, Joyce, and some random off-stage guy who acts like he knows what's going on and is surprisingly sympathetic, they manage to get Jack in position at the right time. He's doing his usual pre-show freak-out, only scaled up by about 100 because this is the fucking Academy Awards and Jack never does anything small. Mitch literally manhandles him out and then gently pushes him down onto the stool that's been placed there for him, but, nevertheless, the end result is Jack is on-stage.

Randy's set-up is a good five feet away from Jack, but he doesn't hesitate to drag his mic over closer so he's barely one foot away. Any closer, and neither of them would be able to play, never mind the fact that during the broadcast it look would really weird for him to be playing almost on top of Jack. At this point, looking weird is the last thing on his mind, but this will all have been for nothing if the two of them fuck up in the middle of the song because one of them elbows the other.

He just wants to get through this; he wants to get Jack through this.

He knew this was a bad idea.

Randy's all plugged in, and at least Jack's managed that much on his own, too. Mitch is behind the piano and Kev's in position at the drum set.

They have maybe 30 seconds before the screen retracts and they'll get a hard cue from the stage director to start playing. Randy's hands are sweating, which they never do before a performance, but it's no wonder with all the drama of the last few hours. He meets Kev's eyes and gets a solemn nod, and then he's looking over at Mitch who just shrugs and raises his eyebrows.

"Jack," Randy whispers, leaning over, "you going to be okay?"

There's a quiet call of "10!" from the wings, and Jack doesn't respond, but he's not quite as sickly white as he'd been just a minute ago. Randy barely has time to lean back before the huge divider is whirring off to either side of the stage, and the director is signaling rapidly for them to start.

This is the moment. It's Mitch who starts, but only by one measure. Jack's got to follow him in or the whole song is fucked. Deep breath in as Mitch goes, and--

Jack comes in seamlessly, and the two of them are golden for the intro and the first verse. The sound is unbelievably rich, like when they play stadiums, only better. The acoustics of this place are phenomenal and all the mics are up just right. Both the piano and Jack's electric are tuned within an inch of their lives, and by the time Randy and Kev come in for the second verse, it's like there was never a problem at all. They build it up for the second verse and the pre-chorus, and Mitch's voice never falters. He hits every note; they all do. When they drop out, it's perfectly synchronized, down to the second, and when Mitch and Randy come back in, it's. . .

It's the best performance they've ever given of this song. Kev keeps it steadier and cleaner than he usually does, and so Randy's able to time every note change like clockwork. They get past the second chorus, and Randy's finally comfortable enough to take a glance out at the audience. It's bright, but not ridiculously so, and he almost laughs when he spots a few famous actors sitting in the front row. But then it's the bridge, and then it's the collision, and Randy has to back up Mitch a little on vocals, and then he can't help but try to watch Jack as they near the end. They all drop out one more time, and it's Jack who stands up from his stool and signals them back in. The piano and Mitch are what most people focus on, and that's intentional. The words are important and so is the melody, but in Randy's opinion. . . it's the electric guitar that takes just another sad song and turns it into something unique, elevates it, makes it _hurt_.

The way it's written, the way Jack always plays it, it almost sounds like the guitar's crying, and then at the end, _screaming_. And the whole song is Jack's creation really, every note, every word, but that guitar. . . that guitar _is_ Jack.

It gives Randy chills, and as they reach the end and one by one finish, he can't help smiling. Kev is done after the last chorus, and then both Randy and Jack are out six measures later. Soon, it's back to Mitch and the piano, and then--

Then they're done, and there's applause, and then the screen is sliding back across the stage, separating the front once again from where they're at in the back.

And Randy breathes out a huge lungful of air he hadn't known he'd been holding.

Mitch's piano bench makes a sound as he scoots it back, and Kev is kind of noisy getting away from his drums, but Randy just unplugs his bass and keeps staring at Jack.

Jack's standing up, and he slowly unplugs, too, and starts to turn to Randy, but then Mitch steps between them and gets Randy's attention by gesturing back towards the wings. The stage director is over there, again waving at them frantically, only this time trying to get them to hurry off. Kev cheerfully gives the guy the finger, but is already almost off-stage when he does so. Mitch raises his eyebrows at Randy, and then jerks his head pointedly towards Jack.

And so as Mitch jogs away, Randy closes that one foot distance that had separated them, and he reaches out and sets his hand on Jack's shoulder.

"Thought that went pretty well, don't you?" he asks lightly. He gives Jack a little pat and then takes a step forward, hoping Jack will get the hint and start walking.

Jack nods, and he does take the hint, but not before slinging his arm around Randy. And they probably look like idiots as they come off-stage because Randy knows he's grinning and Jack surprisingly is, too, and their guitars make walking together really awkward, and the stage director is looking pissed for some reason, and Randy thinks Mitch and Kev are laughing together about something, and they're at the fucking _Oscars_ , and they not only pulled it together at the last second -- pulled Jack together -- but also just fucking _killed it_. At the _Oscars_.

And the best thing about this night so far is still somehow Jack's arm around Randy's back, and his hand on Randy's hip, and the fact that he's Jack and he's grinning.

That's the best thing at this point, but it doesn't stay that way for very long. Soon, Jack's arm around him is like the appetizer for the main course and then, later, dessert.

When they win for Best Score, Randy and Kev stay in their seats cos technically they didn't write the score. They just played it. But Mitch pretty much runs up there, and then waves at them with his freakin' statue to come up, too. Then Jack, not to be outdone, leans close to the microphone and says, in front of the entire Hollywood movie industry and however many millions of viewers are watching on TV, "Paging Randy Jinds and Kevin Izer-Donaldson. Please report to the stage, fuckheads." And people laugh -- startled, loud, genuine laughter -- and Randy follows Kev up, and the two of them and Jack just stand by and watch as Mitch hurriedly tries to thank everyone important.

He gets their managers, and the director of the film itself, Gabby Harmon, and then the Academy. Then he moves on to the other musicians who came in to play for the score, and the producers. Mitch names all these people, just rattles 'em off the top of his head, his mouth going a mile a minute, and Randy doesn't think he's the only one who kind of loses the thread in the middle because Mitch is really excited, and when he's excited his accent goes from cool and suave and oh-so-proper, to 'What the fuck is that British dude saying?'

Mitch says a broad thank-you to all of their families, and at that point they're finally starting to get played off by the orchestra. So, Randy, thinking it's pretty much done, starts kind of slowly sidling towards the wings, but then Mitch takes the final five seconds and finishes with a ridiculously cheesy cry of, "I love you, Silla!" as he hoists his statue above his head.

There's more applause, and the presenters gesture for them to exit, so like some weird game of follow-the-leader, Randy finds himself leading them off-stage. When they're off-camera, Randy and Kev beg off the whole backstage press junket wanna-be, instead opting to sneak back out to their seats.

Kev gets a kiss from Audrey, and Randy gives Silla a small, embarrassed smile from his seat down the row. On-stage, there's some more lame crap for a bit, but then the host introduces Jennifer Lopez, and Randy knows she's the presenter for Best Original Song so he makes sure to sit up and school his face into something resembling cool intelligence, and not weirded out or overwhelmed.

Applause, clapping, the camera guy turns towards them and Randy doesn't know if the camera's actually on them or not, so he pretends to be really interested in J Lo on the stage, and then she's saying, "And the Oscar goes to. . . "

And Randy has to bite the inside of his cheek cos he can actually feel his face just automatically sliding into bewildered. . . because this is the weirdest fucking moment in his entire life.

More applause, and cheering, and. . . wait--

Kev's whooping and standing up, so, yes, apparently Randy missed J Lo announcing that his band had the Best Original Song in film this year. Kev jumps to his feet, and then grabs Randy by his arm and jerks him along down the aisle, and Randy has to go along with it because he feels completely out of it. This shit is bizarre.

Jack and Mitch come walking back out from the left side of the stage, and then they're all up by the mic and Randy actually gets a statue this time, and that damn thing's kind of heavier than he'd thought. Mitch doesn't go up to the microphone, instead gesturing for Jack to do it.

And Jack does.

He hefts the award in his hands, and says as he stares at it, "This is either the best trip I've ever had or somebody up there loves me." The audience laughs, but not as much as they had earlier.

Randy thinks distantly that his mouth is hanging open, but this is so surreal that he's half-convinced he'll get a chance at a do-over. Besides, it doesn't matter, anyway. No one's looking at _him_.

"I don't believe in a lot," Jack says, and he's standing so close to the mic that he can talk quietly and still be heard loud and clear. The effect is. . . it's like he's sharing a secret. "But there are some things I'm just certain of," he goes on, "and one of those things is the fact that I would literally not be alive today if it weren't for. . . certain people. So, this award is really theirs, too."

Randy swallows and shifts his weight, and Kev and Mitch are kind of antsy, too, but Jack isn't moving at all. He's just standing there, staring at the Oscar statuette like he doesn't know what it is.

"My job is me hanging out with my best friends and writing down whatever pops into my head, and it's only cos of them that I'm even still in this business," Jack says, and Randy smiles. "My family is messed up," and something in his voice shifts, "and everyone thought we were no good, worthless, except one person, one woman in the-- the whole world. So, Mom, if you're up there eavesdropping, this one's for you."

The carry-off music starts up at that point, and people in the audience start clapping again, but Jack's not done. He leans over the mic and now he's looking up and into the camera. And he's got that stance of his, and Randy starts grinning cos whatever Jack's about to say. . . it's going to stir up trouble.

"So, that's two Oscars, Bobby!" he calls out, and at that point Randy actually does laugh. "Suck it, you pansy ass hockey goon!"

People in the audience give those surprised laughs again as they keep clapping, and J Lo and the female statue-giver start making the herding motions again. Randy takes one more look at the view from up here before starting to walk off, and he can't help but be glad he didn't end up wearing the purple Day-Glo shirt or the black jacket that looked like some sort of man's corset. He'd have hated to be up here accepting an award dressed like that. Never would have heard the end of it.

Also, Randy kind of doubts Jack would have looked at him in quite the same way he does two hours later, if Randy had been wearing some truly embarrassing clothes instead of his nice tailored blue suit.

Although, Jack _was_ singing Prince when they first met. . . Maybe he has a soft spot for androgynous men in purple that is as yet unexplored.

The whole experience is some fantastic dream sequence, with people, _movie stars_ , sitting a few feet around them in every direction, and Randy's technically an Academy Award Winner, and at one point he's in the bathroom and Johnny Marco comes out of a stall down the line and nods at him, and still it all pales in comparison to finally. . .

See, he drinks four glasses of champagne at the studio's after-party, and then on his fifth he looks across their table and meets Jack's eyes.

And then Jack licks his lips without breaking eye contact, and Randy swallows wrong, and he ends up coughing champagne through his nose which really, _really_ hurts, but less than an hour after that, he and Jack leave together, and being an Oscar winner is honestly the last thing on his mind for the next 12 hours.

***


	4. Chapter 4

_"The Beatles were wrong. Love isn't all you need, but it's all you want, and it's the most important fucking thing there is." ~ Jack Mercer_

***

He's initially surprised when his lips touch Rands' that it's not as exciting as he'd expected. It's not burning passion or fury. They're barely even moving, certainly not rushing or frantic. Rands is absent his jacket and tie, but that's all, and Jack's completely fully clothed. He's even got his shoes on, though he continues moving his feet to try and keep them off the sofa cos, damn, that thing was expensive.

It's not lightning, but it is. . . _something_. It'd be easy to say 'deep' or 'emotional,' but neither of those get at the heart of it. Fingers and a palm keep Jack from straining his neck, supporting the back of his head. Cradling it? Certainly, it's a soft hold, not selfish.

Rands and his hands.

Jack opens his eyes, readying himself for the shock of having Randy real close to his face, but when he looks. . . it's not a shock. There's Randy, maybe an inch of space dividing them, but Jack's not startled. He had prepared himself like always, visualized himself as a man of stone so as not to gasp or inhale too fast, too deep, but he needn't have bothered.

This is when he'll remember 'getting' it.

Somehow Rands' lips aren't on his anymore, but his body still is, and his eyes, and probably all of his attention. Randy's good at that, at focusing and narrowing down his concentration into a needle. Over the years, Jack's tried to figure out how he does it. He can't ever manage that himself. There's always something else rattling around, dividing his thoughts -- always, but not, Jack realizes, _now_. Rands. It's Rands: warm, hot, but never burning, never hurting. There's no division in Jack's head like there always is, no contrasting going on.

He's here with Rands, not anywhere else, not anywhen else. There is no rush, but there is _something_. It's a weight inside him, but not like the stone man he envisions to keep slow and prevent the coughing. This feeling is heavy, solid, and it makes looking into Randy's eyes difficult, like it never is. But the fingers and the palm are still along Jack's skull, and so he moves his own up to mirror Rands. He slides his right hand along the arm, up and over the shoulder to the throat. He brushes past the left ear and then back around. Warmth, and softness, and connection, and it's weighing Jack down. It's filling him up, but not like cold stone, not like fear found in memories or the coil and twist of shame around regrets.

Rands is here, and then before his lips come back down to Jack's again, they quirk up in a brief smile. It's the only quick part about this. That fleeting smile before they kiss again is the only fleeting thing in their. . . entire history together. Years, building and building, a step at time, constant, these are easy to think, easier still to say aloud and to play over and over to crowds of strange listeners.

Jack closes his eyes again, and he's heavy, weighted down, but not sinking. He's slow and full, and this is when he 'gets' it. There is no division because it's Rands.

And now Jack knows. It's _something_ , all right.

It really is something.

It does fucking exist, right at the heart.

He opens his mouth and literally pushes the words across into Rands' -- because there is no separation or dividing line, and what Jack is feeling is what Randy is. . .

That's the moment Jack 'gets' what it is, but it's not when it begins. Jack doesn't think it ever really 'began.' It never finishes, either. He's never empty again, never floats away.

And fuck if Randy isn't why Jack sits down the next day and winds up writing the kind of song he scorns the bejesus out of. But at least it's Rands who has to sing the fucking thing.

Jack never would've lived it down if Bobby heard him sing a love song.

***

 _. . . made headlines last year with the USO tour, featuring band members Jack Mercer and Randy Jinds. Yesterday, We Spares spokeman David Cochran confirmed that a new album is currently in the works for the band, with half the proceeds from sales set to benefit a charity supporting orphaned youth . . . _ ____  
  
***

" . . . don't know how you do it," he finds himself whispering. He can't look Jack in the eyes, so he says it to a cheek, to the corner of that mouth, reddened from the repeated pressure of Randy's own lips upon it.

Jack seems dazed, and it'd be easy to chalk it up to booze or pot if either of them had had any tonight. But they haven't. There's this weird expression on Jack's face, and his pupils are blown, and his mouth -- that red, red mouth -- is half-open, but he's not high and he can't be drunk. Randy would know. He watches him too much. He would've spotted something like that. It's creepy. People have even told him it's kind of creepy, and Randy's always played it off as just him babysitting Jack, making sure he's okay. Best friend duty, wingman stuff, that's all it is.

He's such a liar, and as Randy reaches down now to cup the right side of Jack's face in his hand, he thinks that should make it all Jack's fault. Jack makes it impossible to look away, impossible to want to look away. Jack has made Randy into that creepy guy, that one who no one wants to be around because he's so obsessed and off-putting.

"How I do 'what'?" Jack's mouth asks, and Randy suddenly remembers he'd said something.

But he doesn't remember what he'd been meaning to express with whatever he'd said a few seconds ago. He's lost that train of thought. So he decides to move forward, start over again, start fresh. He drags his focus up from that red mouth and pins it on Jack's eyes instead, and then Randy smiles and dives back down to kiss him.

Start from here, he thinks, for as long as he can.

He keeps his eyes open, and Jack does at first, too. But then they slide shut, and Randy's staring at a close-up of eyelashes and strange, almost translucent eyelids, and he is kissing Jack.

And Jack is kissing him back.

Right then, Jack for some reason decides to roll to the left and they both end up falling off the couch. Randy lands on the bottom, and he gets one of Jack's elbows in his stomach and the wind squished out of him from the rest of Jack's body landing on top of him, but he just groans and wraps his arms around Jack tighter. He grips a shoulder blade and then, with his other hand, that spot where the waist is just shifting into hip territory, and Jack's reached up into Randy's hair and his fingers are now like claws against his scalp.

He breaks the kiss when he figures out Jack is actually, deliberately or not, sucking the air out from Randy's mouth back into his own. It's freaky, and feels really weird, and for some stupid reason it is just now occurring to Randy that sex with Jack. . . might prove kind of difficult, what, with all the fucking problems breathing the guy normally has, never mind when he's. . . _exerting_ himself.

So he winds up ripping his lips from Jack's so quickly that his head hits the floor with an actual accompanying sound. It's not even a thump. It's a bang. Then he moans again, something like an "Unnngh" sound, and then he's looking up at Jack, who's kind of puffing or-- or panting, but not. . .

"I'm fine," Jack says, and it's breathy but not danger-zone breathy, not get-the-oxygen breathy. Both of Jack's hands were just in Randy's hair a second ago, but now they're on his face, thumbs just at the corners of his mouth and Jack's rough fingers circling around his ears and jaw. They're just looking at each other, and Jack's got this-- this _look_ on his face. It's not really a smirk, and it's not anything as nice or innocent as a smile, and there are no teeth, so it's not a grin. Randy doesn't know what to call Jack's expression, but he knows the feeling behind it, and that same feeling increases inside _him_ when Jack's thumbs start pulling at the edges of Randy's mouth, urging, forcing him to open wide and wider still.

"Jack," he manages to say, but he's just shhhh-ed in response.

Jack sits up on Randy, on his thighs, but then he sort of leans forward, and that is definitely Jack being hard against Randy, and that makes Randy rapidly shift up gears from half-hard and rising, to 'I don't care what you have planned, but it better involve me coming soon.' Now _he's_ kind of short of breath, too.

"What should we do?" Jack asks really quietly, but he's officially grinning now, so it's just Jack being kind of a dick, not him being unsure. Randy huffs and tries to glare at him, maybe gets a few seconds into it, but then Jack starts fucking rocking back and forth on top of him, and Randy suddenly wonders, as he reaches out and makes contact, why he's waited this long to grab Jack's ass.

It's a very nice ass.

Randy groans, and sends his hips upward as a sort of comeback because he's never been a talker, and at this point he is way past trying to keep up with Jack's banter. Jack's mouth had been smiling, but when Randy bucks, it falls open.

Take that, Randy thinks, and so he does it again, harder, and he holds that position up longer, while at the same time gripping Jack's ass and pulling him downward. This time it's fucking Jack who makes a moaning sound, and Randy might not be grinning exactly, but he'd bet he looks pretty smug right about now.

Jack is blushing, or flushing, or whatever it is that makes his face pink and red, and sets his eyes -- they're so fucking blue, and how did Randy not notice that before -- blazing. Jack's hot to the touch, too, where he's rubbing and grinding on top of Randy and under his hands. Hot and solid and moving a hand from beside Randy's mouth down to fumble around near his--

"Whoa!" Randy shouts out, completely unintentionally, and he'd probably feel like a massive dork for doing so if not for the fact that Jack's hand is now touching Randy's cock. It's fucking awesome, but suddenly he gets the idea that it could be better, and he releases Jack's ass to make a grab at the bottom of Jack's dress shirt. He starts pulling it up, just as Jack gets a rhythm going with his hand, and that causes Randy to lose his train of thought again for a few seconds.

Luckily, Jack seemed to get what Randy was trying to accomplish there, and as much as it sucks in the short-term, he drags his hand out of Randy's pants and without unbuttoning it just pulls his shirt right over his head and tosses it away. Then, and Randy hadn't really meant for him to go to such extreme measures, Jack actually gets up. He stands up and -- now towering far above and far removed from Randy and Randy's hands and Randy's pants and his poor, poor cock -- quickly gets rid of his shoes and socks, and then unbuckles his belt and drops his pants. Then he kicks them away, and that leaves Jack in his underwear with a very prominent hard-on, standing over Randy, and-- no, no, goddammit, he is _not_ \--

"Are you fucking smirking at me?" Randy asks, and he was aiming for incredulous and annoyed, but instead gets a combination of desperate and whiney.

Jack nods, damn him, and keeps right on smirking, but then he backs up and crouches down at Randy's feet and starts untying Randy's shoes.

And Randy, finally recognizing the full brilliance of this plan, sits up and sends his fingers flying down the buttons of his shirt, shucking it off when he finishes and just throwing it. Then he moves down and begins unbuttoning and unzipping his pants. Jack gets the shoes off him, and he yanks Randy's socks away, flinging them across the room which makes both of them grin stupidly. Then, eyes on Jack's, Randy lifts up his hips and goes one further than Jack. He slides his pants and his boxers down together, and gets them off and shoves them out of the way, and he never looks away from Jack while he does so.

Which itself is quite the feat cos Jack has that _look_ again. But then Jack's standing up, and then he's got his arm and hand stretched down for Randy to take, and Randy does of course. He gets pulled up to his feet and, whether by design or not, he ends up sort of crashing into Jack. And that, of course, means they're required to grab each other to keep from stumbling or bumping into the sofa nearby or falling.

Randy grabs a shoulder and the right side of Jack's waist, and in return gets a firm hand around his elbow and the other low on his back. Jack's face is suddenly right there in front of him, with his stupid good looks and sarcastic mouth, and those goddamn blue as hell eyes that somehow Randy has been missing out on this entire time.

And then Jack's face is a whole lot closer, specifically his sarcastic mouth, and then the rest of his body follows, and Randy is being pulled into a different room of Jack's house.

And they land on top of each other again, on top of Jack's bed.

And Randy sucks at Jack's mouth, and lets Jack suck the air out of his, and they're both breathless, and for once. . . it's for the same reason.

And then, a minute later, or nine long years after the fact, or at a pit stop during one helluva long, messed up ride, Randy gets Jack, tries to get all of him at once, and ends up realizing that the closer they are physically (Jack on Randy, Randy in Jack, Jack&Randy, Jack in Randy, Jack, Jack, Jack) the more often Jack's face shifts into that _look_. And Randy knows that look, inside and out, and he wonders if his face has it, too, and he hopes it does cos Jack doesn't say the words, and so Randy doesn't, either, but it's there, and so are they.

And Randy's unsure about a lot of things, about himself a lot, about what's next. He's not certain about anything really, always wonders.

And then he gets Jack, and he's still unsure, but not about everything, not about what counts.

And when they start to fall asleep, Randy knows one thing for certain.

And Jack, the goddamn smiling ass, knows it too, and so Randy guesses that means he actually knows _two_ things for certain.

And that's not the end, and it isn't the beginning, but it's a start, and Randy thinks he'll start from here for as long as he can.

For as long as they both shall. . . rock out.

***

_. . .celebrated his 30th birthday in style at the L.A. club, Delilah. In attendance were various notables from music, film, and television, as well as all three of Mercer's bandmates, and his family, including brother Bobby Mercer who plays for the Detroit Red Wings. . ._

***

Evidently, and no one had bothered to inform Jack of this fact until Mitch says something the day _of_ , Kev and Audrey are actually, technically, the hosts of the party tonight. And that weirds Jack out _a lot_ , and kind of scares him, because their parties are always just. . . _insane_ , always populated by some unholy combination of: hipsters, squares, goths, freaks, athletes, nerds in plaid and glasses and speaking in code; college students, college professors, college Deans; people in the business, people in _business_ , people who hate business altogether; writers, doctors, way too many lawyers; past flames, past fiancées, past ménage à trois; siblings, half-siblings, cousins, parents, probably grandparents by the looks of some of 'em; working-class, middle-class, upper-class, European nobility; interpretive dance troupes, fire twirlers, BDSM displays, war re-enactors, horses, goats, a flamingo; and, on one memorable occasion, a group of practicing Satanists who did the catering.

Kev and Audrey, when they're out together, look pretty tame on the surface -- no piercings, maybe a couple small tattoos, bland haircuts. They've got _kids_ , for God's sake, and standing next to them as a couple always make Jack feel like some kind of dirty, hippie, biker dude. But looks are deceiving most of the time, and with Kevin and Audrey? That is an understatement. Alone or separate from Audrey, Kevin is. . . _Kevin_ , and is a definition unto himself. Jack doesn't know for sure, but he tends to think the real thing Kev and Audrey have in common is the fact that they're both absolute _freaks_. Frankly, and Jack knows Rands and even Mitch feel the same. . . Audrey kind of _scares_ him. She's considered kinky even by kinky people standards, and it just goes to show, the straitlaced ones are usually the real nuts.

And these are the people in charge of Jack's birthday party.

He doesn't get it. Jack wonders why the switch, wonders who decided and what their reason for it was. And besides, if it's not a business function -- something the label sets up -- then Mitch is _always_ the one who does this type of shit for the rest of them, organizing and planning and pulling everything together.

Jack does not want to hear Bobby's take on Satanic baked goods. He doesn't want to hear _Angel and Bobby's take_ on Satanic baked goods, and it hits him again that he was stupid enough to not only invite, but also _insist_ his brothers attend this thing tonight. Jerry and Camille are bringing their girls, for Christ's sake. There _cannot_ be BDSM displays at this party.

Although, from what he vaguely remembers overhearing years ago when he was. . . staying at the house. . . Sofi and Angel might not be too upset by the crazier shit Kev and Audrey are supposedly into. Sof's a loud one, and she talks about everything -- _everything_. Plus, Jack fucking grew up with Angel. They were living out of each other's pockets for awhile there, just them and Ma in the house after both Jerry and Bobby had left. Not too much shit got past either of them, much as they both wish, and now kind of pretend, otherwise. Bobby knows everything cos he can fucking talk and nag anything out of anyone. Angel knows, though, cos he and Jack were living two rooms away from each other at the time, and back then Jack wasn't the only one having a lot of sex. Fact is, for awhile there, he'd practically had a stockpile of condoms and lube hidden behind the drawers of his nightstand, and he can remember sometimes reaching back for one or the other and finding fewer there than there should have been. And he sure didn't think it was Evelyn helping herself to that shit.

And Angel didn't take only the condoms.

So, yeah, Sofi and Angel -- they're another couple who aren't all that they seem. Angel might have been active duty military for more than nine years, but he's not the boss in that relationship. He's as much a pushover as Jerry is to Camille.

Jack doesn't want to think what _he's_ like. . . with Rands. Or, God forbid, if Bobby's going with someone. . .  

Shaking his head to try and get rid of that line of thought, Jack says, almost desperately to Mitch, "I thought _you_ were doing the party."

And Mitch just grins and laughs at him in response. Then he stops, squinting at Jack for a second or two, and looking at him intensely, like he's waiting for something.

"What?" Jack snaps, not liking the look on Mitch's face right now. And so, yeah, maybe he's feeling a bit defensive at the moment, but so what? The whole process of getting this party off the ground has been nerve-wracking, and frankly Jack's more than fucking ready for it to be over and done with. A party, a birthday party, is supposed to be _fun_ , but this thing's turning into too big a mess, some huge production he has no control over.

He should've just stuck with cake, candles, and tons of booze like every other year.

"I was going to," Mitch eventually offers, "but they were really insistent I didn't. Said it was their gift to you. I asked Rands about it," Mitch then says, and his voice -- it's got that stupid upward lilt at the end, and with Mitch's accent it comes out sounding sort of. . . _smug_. But then he shrugs (but still with that sort of hinting look on his face).

At this point, Jack can't help frowning in confusion. Why would Mitch ask _Randy_ about party-planning? Rands hates that stuff, makes no secret about it. Honestly, Jack's pretty sure even _he's_ better at organizing shit than Randy, and far less of a bitchy asshole when doing it, too.

So Jack starts to come back with a, "Huh?" in reply, but that's the same moment he gets a tickle in his throat. And then he has to try and get rid of it before it turns into a huge deal, and of course he didn't bring the oxygen canister with him, so he's consciously trying not to think about _that_ little piece of stupidity on his part because just the thought that he might suffocate here in Mitch's hotel room is making his body tense up and his throat close down in dread. Jack tries to _gently_ clear his throat to see if-- but, no, that goddamn motherfucking frog is still fucking there, and normal people don't have to worry about not getting enough air to do even as simple a thing as clearing their throats.

Of course, Mitch has been really looking at him this whole time, and is just now starting to get that concerned expression on his face that Jack fucking hates. So Jack stands up and crosses the room, walks right over to the mini bar. He keeps his back to Mitch, faces away, and then gives in, calls it quits, and coughs and coughs until the fucking frog in his throat is dead and he's gasping for breath, trying to just _will_ more air into his jacked up lungs.

When he's done hacking and barking, his chest hurts of course, and he's leaning on the bar top trying to slow his breathing down or else it will all have been for nothing. The room is deathly quiet. . . apart from Jack's fucking wheezing.

He shouldn't be worrying about stupid shit like this in the first place -- like what his brothers are going to think about the party, or what Bobby will fucking say, or what Mitch is thinking back there.

Jack's still facing the wall, and Mitch is, from what he can tell, still sitting in the chair across from the sofa. Jack can feel him looking over here, and he's already embarrassed so it makes sense to just go ahead and croak out, "What do you mean you asked Rands?"

Then he turns around, just in time to see the expression on Mitch's face shift into some sort of exasperated fondness.

"You never told us, you know," he says, and where the words could have easily been a rebuke, the way Mitch says them. . . it's like he thinks it's cute or something.

Of course, neither of them pretend like Jack doesn't know exactly what Mitch is referring to. That'd be pointless. Still, as he crosses the room and tiredly drops back down onto the sofa, Jack has a hard time looking up.

"Yeah, I know," Jack eventually says. "Sorry about that, man. It's just, wasn't too sure. . . what it even was, exactly, and then. . . " He trails off, and then looks up, shrugging at Mitch to show he honestly didn't really know about it, either, for awhile.

But Mitch just nods in that way of his, like he understands better than Jack does what the hell this thing he's got going on with Randy is -- like he's understood it the whole time.

"So, hey, when'd you figure it out, anyway?" Jack asks, unable to resist, and he's expecting some horrifying answer along the lines of 'since last year,' or 'during the Oscars,' or even 'Kev told me last week.'

Instead, he gets Mitch laughing fucking uproariously for almost a full minute, and the words, "It's always been there. I've known since New York."

And if that isn't the scariest thing Jack's ever heard Mitch say, then it's pretty damn close to it.

Jack can admit to himself that he's sort of in a state of shock for the next few hours, mentally casting back to try and find signs of this deeper feeling constantly lurking beneath the surface. Eventually, he comes to the conclusion that he'd known on some level, for awhile, that he was attracted to Randy, and he's consciously known he loves Randy a lot, ever since that Christmas back in Detroit, when Rands got him that computer program for music manipulation and made him use it, even when Jack is pretty sure he was a dick about it. Those memories are fuzzy now, but the feelings behind them aren't. So, he's loved Rands for a long time, and he's always known the guy's hot, and he trusts him like no other, not even his brothers.

It was probably an easy, seamless slide from feeling those two things individually, right on into feeling them together. He certainly didn't notice the change. Just-- he looks over and he doesn't even have to say anything, already knows what Rands is thinking.

Already knows what he's feeling.

Mitch of course gets pretty bored with just watching Jack zone out on his hotel room couch, so he leaves the room at one point and does various stuff around the suite. Jack's pretty sure he overhears him talking to Silla, and thinks the shower starts up. Then the TV's playing, and Mitch is laughing at whatever's on, while doing up his cufflinks.

"Looking fancy," Jack offers up, shifting position on the couch and realizing his legs have fallen asleep and his ass hurts from sitting in one place for so long. Mitch turns his head, and smiles. Then, he walks over to the mini bar and pours out two glasses of something. Jack can't see what.

"I was told the dress code is semi-formal," Mitch says with his back turned. "Can't go wrong with no tie and cufflinks. But, shhhh," he adds, picking up the glasses and turning around, "don't tell the birthday boy. I think it's supposed to be a secret." He comes over and holds out one of the glasses of. . . bourbon, by the smell. Jack reaches up and takes it, and then Mitch clinks his own glass against Jack's in a toast. Together they slam back the drinks.

"Whew," Jack says a moment later, and Mitch just nods and makes a little snorting sound as he smiles.

He walks around the coffee table and resumes his spot on the chair across from Jack. Then, making sure he's got Jack's attention, he says, mock seriously, "I am charged with telling you that your attire's being provided. You'll be given it once we arrive at the venue. Oh!" he exclaims suddenly, trying to look like he's just remembered something. Jack laughs because he looks ridiculous, but Mitch just happily continues acting. "And you're receiving a special, super secret form of transpo to said venue. Your orders are to," and here he uses fucking air-quotes, which are never not hilarious with Mitch, "'just go with it, dude,' and also, 'stop being such a pussy.'"

Mitch then grins at him, and Jack shakes his head and grins back, and when Rands shows up half an hour later, with Bobby standing next to him saying they've got a stretch hummer waiting downstairs, and barking at Jack to get his ass in gear, Jack just follows orders. He _goes_ with it.

When they're out of the elevator and across the lobby, and he finally sees the vehicle he's supposed to get into, he laughs. But he climbs right in, and no one says anything about Rands sitting next to him, not until Bobby starts ragging on him. He's in fine form tonight, talking his head off the whole way to the club, going on and on about birthdays past, and saying shit like:

"Oh, Jackie, you used to love blowing those candles, man. Blew 'em like a pro! I've never seen anyone blow something that hard."

"The cakes, Jackie, remember the cakes? Ma always said you had the best taste of any of us, and I believe it. No regular chocolate frosting for our Jackie, nuh-uh. It was fudge all the way! Why, your cakes were always just _packed_ with fudge!"  
   
And, Jack's personal favorite:

"Always so particular about the wrapping. Everything had to be wrapped up tight, no holes or nothin', or else little Jackie here just wouldn't touch it! Didn't want anything to do with goods that weren't wrapped!"

It takes maybe 20 minutes for the driver to get them Delilah, and by the end Rands and Mitch, not as immune to this act as Jack is, are pretty much just crying puddles of laughter. Bobby's still just chattering away like nothing's going on, his exaggerated faux-innocent delivery making even Jack chuckle a few times, although mostly he just looks out the window and prays the whole night won't be like this.

The driver drops them off at the service entrance, and once they're inside the building, one of the first things that Jack picks up on is the distant sound of people laughing hysterically. Mitch is in front, and he leads them through the empty club until suddenly they're walking through a set of doors and into a room where Angel's the only one standing up. He's gesturing wildly and acting out some scene, while everyone else in Jack's immediate circle of friends and family is almost rolling on the floor laughing.

This does not bode well. Seems his prayer has, once again, gone unanswered.

That's when Angel spots them at the door, turning with that big shit-eating grin on his face to say, "Hey, speaking of!" which just sets off another round of laughter.

"Happy birthday!" everyone then shouts, their timing incredibly off. The words are staggered, overlapping, so the effect is like a waterfall of happy birthdays rushing at him. And maybe Jack _had_ wished for a party that didn't include his brothers endlessly making fun of him, but when everyone starts coming up to him and giving him hugs and patting him on the back, he realizes a party without that wouldn't mean as much. Angel lifts him up off the ground when they hug, and Jerry squeezes him real tight like he's trying to make sure Jack reciprocates. And that's real, more authentic and meaningful than any polite affair would have been. He gets kissed so many times on the cheek that, later, when he's in the bathroom changing into Audrey-approved semi-formal wear, and sees his reflection in the mirror, he's practically covered in lipstick prints. Now he knows why Rands kept looking at him and laughing.

There's food, and Kev laughingly assures him that it wasn't made by any of Satan's followers. There's tons of alcohol, which some people go wild on, and others, like good ol' Jerry and Silla's business partner Lacey, proudly ignore. Around nine, the club opens to the public, and the sounds from the main dance floor out front come bouncing down the hall to their private room.

At one point, Mitch, who's already pretty hammered by then, pushes the DJ aside and takes over running the music. That's also about the time when Camille and the girls come over to say they're calling it a night, and Amelia, who's 13, grins and says, within earshot of Bobby, "Happy Birthday, Uncle Cracker Jack!" And afterward, out of the corner of his eye, Jack _swears_ he sees Bobby slip that kid some money.

Once Camille and the girls are gone, and a few other people with kids have somehow made their offspring disappear, the lighting switches, going from something like the dim ambience of a restaurant, straight down into the more typical pulsating nightclub style.

"You having fun?" someone calls out to him around 11, shouting to be heard above the music. Jack turns and sees it's Audrey standing there, a glass in her hand and that seemingly innocuous smile on her face.

"I am," Jack answers, turning and leaning forward on the bar to brace himself with his elbows.

Audrey moves up by his side and copies his stance, setting her empty drink softly down on the bar top in front of herself. The bartender comes wandering over, and Audrey meets his eyes, ordering, "Two mojitos, please."

Jack can tell she's looking at him, but for some reason he just keeps looking straight ahead. "You thirsty?" he asks, jokingly.

Audrey chuckles. "Well, yes, but not that much. No," she says, and her tone's still light, but not to the same degree, "the other's for Kev." Jack can see her, in his periphery, gesture across the room to where Mitch is set up. He cranes his neck to look and, sure enough, spots both Kev and Rands over there, as well. "They're all busy talking up a storm about. . . something or other. A remix?" she guesses. Then she shakes her head. "I'm not sure."

Jack smiles, and then turns back around. That's when Audrey leans over and sets a hand very, very lightly on his arm for barely a second, just enough to get his attention, just a pat really. So Jack looks over at her, and now she's got a strange expression on her face. He isn't sure what it means exactly, doesn't know her well enough to be familiar with that kind of thing, but it's something serious. She doesn't appear to be setting up for a joke, anyway.

"What?" he finally asks, just as the bartender comes back with Audrey's drinks.

"I don't want to freak you out," she says, which of course has the exact opposite effect, "but you do know Randy is completely devoted to you, right?" Audrey says this in an entirely matter-of-fact tone of voice, like she's telling him tomorrow's going to be partly cloudy, or his fly's unzipped.

Jack swallows heavily. "Uh, yeah," he manages, ducking his head and turning away again. He winds up looking at the guys over by the music set-up again. Mitch has headphones on, but he's got one pulled back as Kev says something to him. Rands is grinning and shaking his head at whatever's being said, and then Mitch starts laughing and nodding.

"Yeah, I know he is," Jack assures her, and she does that butterfly-light pat on his arm again. He turns to meet her eyes, and says, "Thanks for this, Audrey. You guys are real good friends." He blinks, and adds, "It means a lot. . . "

And her face breaks out in that bright grin again, and Jack honestly doesn't know what to think of her anymore. She seems so genuine and _real_ that he almost wonders if maybe what makes her so weird isn't the fact that she's jaded or hiding away this dark, bent part of herself, but rather that. . . she doesn't have a dark, bent part. Maybe she's one of those people who actually manages to reconcile every aspect of their personalities -- like Kevin, who's never anybody but himself, never puts on airs or tones it down. Maybe that smile is just as innocent and carefree as it appears.

"I'm glad you like this, Jack," Audrey tells him. "Kev and I just-- we both just think the world of you. The night's still young, but. . . happy birthday, huh?"

Jack smiles. "Yeah, 30 years," he says. Audrey lifts up one of the mojitos she's holding in a little salute and they both laugh. Then, she turns and heads across the room to the guys. She excuses herself past Rands, who quickly backs out of her way, and gets Kev's attention with a quick hip check. He turns and grins, taking his drink from her hand, and then pulling her into a kiss.

Behind them, Rands is smiling that slightly sad, self-deprecating smile he does sometimes, when he feels out of place or unsure. Then, suddenly he's looking up, meeting Jack's eyes across the length of the room. Jack smiles at him, raising his eyebrows, and Randy laughs.

That's when the song switches, and Jack recognizes it. . . somewhat. The beat's unfamiliar, but he knows Mitch's voice when he hears it, and likewise the arrangement. It's distorted, and on some kind of loop, and Jack realizes the song's a remix. Mitch is waving at him, and Jack gives a halfhearted wave back, and then a thumbs-up. It's a pretty decent mix, and he kind of glances around to see if anyone's picked up on the fact that it's one of their songs.

Angel and Sofi are on the dance floor, dancing in a way that makes Jack snort and hurriedly look away. Silla's holding court over by the chairs. Bobby's been ogling one of the waits for practically the entire party, and Jack smiles at the thought of maybe teasing the ass about it tomorrow. Jerry's over with some guys at the edge of the room, talking very seriously about something, and no doubt words like 'union' and 'rights' are popping up frequently.

Kev and Audrey drift off over into a corner together, and that leaves Rands just kind of hanging out back there, watching Mitch do his thing, and looking really bored and uncomfortable.

And it's Jack's party, so he thinks about what he wants to do right at that moment, and then he fucking goes over and does it.

"Hey, come on," he says, right in Rands' ear. Then, with a hand on his neck, Jack backs up and pulls Randy with him. People double-take, but it's nothing serious. Jack thinks he can tell Angel's whoop, and somebody whistles shrilly, and Mitch shouts out, "Totally going on Facebook, dude!" Bobby's probably rolling his eyes, and storing away snide comments for later.

It's not even that big of a deal. Jack can't really dance anymore anyway, so it's just them shifting from side to fucking side in time with the music. Rands is smiling and shaking his head, and Jack can tell he thinks this is equal parts cheesy and awesome -- just like Jack does.

This is his birthday party. This is his birthday. He is 30 years old today, and he's in one of the most exclusive nightclubs in the world, in a room with only people he likes, listening to a remix of a song he wrote, and dancing with. . .

Rands played bass on this song. That's him, and that's Jack. That's what Jack wrote for him. Rands plays bass on nine out of their every ten songs, but out here like a fool with him, listening as Mitch's remix plays around them and fills up this oh-so-exclusive room, Jack realizes that if life is music, if it's one colossal song that he's constantly trying to get right, trying to make everyone see and recognize, if everything's just one giant metaphor, then Rands _isn't_ the bass.

That's when Jack smiles, pulls Rands in close by the hand he still has on his neck, and then kisses him right there on the dance floor and knows himself for a sentimental idiot, because Rands?

He's the fucking _harmony_ ; he's the counterpoint; he's the balance.

They are polyphony in action, and--

Rands is what makes it work. He's what makes it worth it.

He's all Jack could _ever_ want.

He's all. . . Jack's.

***

 _. . . said heatedly last night in response to a comment from Mayler, "Don't tell me prejudice doesn't affect liberals, man, or the 'open-minded.' That's straight-up false." Mercer went on to add, "You know, I've lived out here [in L.A.] for going on five years now, and anytime one of my brothers comes out here and we go out -- anywhere, man, anywhere -- anytime we're out hanging, people stare. And we're talking your rich, liberal, white folks, too. I introduce my brothers and immediately everyone f**king double-takes, and we'll sometimes get one of those awkward, insulting remarks. Racism, bigotry, fucking homophobia aren't. . . limited to some in-your-face ranting by backwoods trailer trash. It's subtle, man, and it is everywhere -- everywhere and with-- with almost everybody. People either just don't give a shit, or they give too much of one, you know? And it's our job to change that. It's_ **_my_ ** _job."_

***


	5. Epilogue

_"Everyone out here's got some sort of sob story. Mine's not any better or worse than most. I got shot -- a few times. It happens. It happens every day, as sad as that fucking is. But that's not who I am, and that's not where I'm going. Fact is, I'm one of the luckiest bastards alive." ~ Jack Mercer_

*** 

It's sort of a running gag between the four of them that they don't really deserve their respective partners, their "significant others."

Audrey is so far out of Kevin's league it's like they're two different species of being, like Kevin's an alien from another planet, something along the lines of Mork or that family in that comedy series awhile back. They're practically the embodiment of opposites attract and yet, from all appearances and according to everyone who knows them, two people with one of the healthiest relationships around. Randy's never even seen them fight, not once.

Mitch, meanwhile, actually refers to Silla as Aphrodite a lot of the time, even to her face, and she just smiles and cups his cheeks and then proceeds to make love to his mouth in front of anyone and everyone, including, once, members of her own family. Those two have no shame, and Randy's never seen two people more comfortable in their own skins than Mitch and Silla. They effectively inspire each other. It's ridiculous, sickening even.

Not that Randy and Jack have much room to talk. Together, they're like Kev and Audrey, and Mitch and Silla, and some days Sid and Nancy, and others scarily like the fucking Cleavers.

See, Jack's a music genius who's always going to be the best looking guy in any room and, although the reason itself isn't something either of them wants to think too long on, the result of Jack's teenage activities is that sex with him is hands down the best Randy will ever have.

And Randy, well, he can put up with a lot of shit, and he deals with a lot of stuff, and he's proud of the fact that he rarely loses his calm and virtually never has cause to lie. (He's never lied to Jack, for instance, or Kev, or Mitch. In fact, the only person he actually does fib a little to on a semi-regular basis is Jack's brother Bobby, and that's only because Bobby always seems like he's one wrong word away from gleefully beating the shit out of Randy. Even then, those are lies of omission, pretty much, with only the occasional playing down of Jack's health problems and the always nebulous response as to what exactly his "intentions" are.) Randy-- he likes to think he's a decent person. He tries to be. He's not the most physically attractive guy around, but he's okay enough, and Jack doesn't seem to mind at all that Randy's not model gorgeous like he is.

In the end, Randy's with Jack because he doesn't and never will love anyone more than he does the amazing, sweet, temperamental, raging asshole that is Jack Mercer, and he likes to think. . . no, he knows, is certain that Jack's with him because he feels the same. Jack doesn't put up with bullshit, has no problem getting what he wants, and. . . if actions speak as loud or louder even than words, then from all appearances Randy is what Jack wants.

Randy's in love with Jack, and everyone keeps telling him that Jack's so obviously head over heels for _him_ , too, little Randy Jinds, bassist from Ohio.

And Jack's luck runs hot and cold, to extremes, yo-yo-ing up and down constantly, but Randy's -- his has been astoundingly good for almost a decade now, ever since the night he ran into some blonde dude in a bar in Chicago, drunk off his ass and singing a Prince song surprisingly well. Jack is Randy's good luck, and if taking care of him, working alongside him, hanging out with him, loving him and getting to have regular, amazing, kinda-kinky sex with him is the price he has to pay in order to keep having that good luck. . .

Well, then, that's just the cost of success right there, and Randy wouldn't wish the charge on anyone else.

***

"I think I have an idea for something," Jackie says, and Bobby looks back at him. Jack's leaning against the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, holding his beer in one hand and with his other shoved down into the pocket of his jeans. Kid's hair's a mess, and he's got huge bags under his eyes. He's pale, too, and Bobby thinks maybe Jackie's lost some weight since he and the retard band have been on tour again. He wouldn't be surprised. All four of those jag-offs are pretty much incapable of looking after themselves. It takes an entire crew to raise a band, and pretty much a city to maintain it.

But Bobby looks closely, meets his brother's eyes as he's got soap suds still clinging to his hands, and he somehow knows the worst of it's over and done with for Jackie. The kid can smile easier than he can breathe these days, technically, and Bobby's no fool. He's had a little talking-to with Wonder Boy and damned if it doesn't seem like. . .

Bobby's pretty sure, and he'd even lay odds on it at this point: Jackie's. . . _happy_. He and Randall -- _Randy_ \-- have a weird, domestic, makes-him-want-to-hurl, too perfect for words, kind of epic gay love.

He studies Jackie, and sure enough the shithead just smirks at him, lifting up his bottle to take a big swallow, and Bobby feels his throat lock down when suddenly he catches himself thinking about what Ma would've had to say about. . . everything.

Damned hippie, she probably would've hit on Randy shamelessly, embarrassing them all just for the hell of it. Then, she'd have set about quizzing Jack on safe sex, all while wearing that look on her face that said she knew full well it was anything but required in Jackie's case, but still doing it because of that stupid belief of hers that they all four needed to be treated as normally as possible, and, yeah, safe sex lectures were pretty standard for everyone else.

Bobby would gladly kill a million gangsters just to see Ma give Jackie that speech. Hell, he'd do away with their goalie for a whole season if it meant being on the receiving end of one Ma's smiles again. Bobby'd give up everything, spend life in solitary, or take those injections, or do it himself right now in the kitchen, just to bring her back for one day.

But it's impossible, and the more he thinks about it the more depressed he gets.

So Bobby reaches over and throws the dishtowel back at Jackie, hitting the smug little shit right in his lame-ass, pretty boy, rock star face.

"Why don'tcha help out around here a little, huh?" he says gruffly, turning forward again and rinsing a plate. Just as Bobby's about to put it in the drainer, though, there's the clink of a beer being set down nearby and then one of Jackie's hands drifts over to take the plate from him. Kid starts mopping at it with the dishtowel, setting it down on the counter when he's done and waiting for Bobby to hand him the next one.

"Think you guys'll like this one," Jackie says quietly, reminding Bobby the kid had something he wanted to talk about. Then, the clincher, Jack adds, "Think Ma woulda liked it, too."

What a prick. With the hair standing up on the back of his neck and goose bumps all along his arms, how can Bobby possibly say no to whatever new idea Jackie's come up with? Impossible, with a lead-in like that.

"Okay," Bobbys asks, playing along, "what's this bright idea of yours then, Princess?"

And that's pretty much it.

That's how they, the four biggest fuck-ups Detroit's ever seen, wind up getting it right and no doubt. . . making their mother proud.

***  
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. . . **ission Statement** : The Evelyn Mercer Foundation is a nonprofit organization dedicated to providing foster youth with the support system and tools needed to become successful, healthy, happy, self-sufficient adults. It offers a variety of assistance, including private and government-funded scholarships, comprehensive programs such as mentoring and coaching, internships, care packages, free counseling and 24-hour hotline, and a number of career readiness programs._

 _Last year, the Evelyn Mercer Foundation proudly served more than 5,000 youth, donating and funding programs to a total of more than $14.7 million of assistance._

 _Founded by adopted brothers Bobby, Jeremiah, Angel, and Jack Mercer, last year the Foundation went national, and now proudly assists foster youth in all 50 states. Currently chaired by Camille Mercer, headquarters for the Evelyn Mercer Foundation are located in Detroit, Michigan._

 _If you or someone you know is interested in helping foster youth, please contact. . ._

  
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